Music
by Swordsman422
Summary: Continuation of the "Judge the Sky" storyline. Cameron gets a job, while her efforts to keep her emotions hidden strain her relationship with her family. The war comes crashing back into the lives of the Connors when a visitor from the future shows up at their door.
1. Same as it Ever Was

**Music**

Disclaimer: I do not own Sarah Connor Chronicles or the Terminator Saga. The following events are fictional.

Authors Note: This story is a part of my series that began with "Judge the Sky." I recommend going back and reading "Judge the Sky," "The Line is a Canyon," and optionally "Chasing the White Rabbit" before reading this one. For those of you who read "Chasing the White Rabbit," I know, I know… "Swordsman, what the hell did I just read?!" The answer… Whatever you make of it. Anyway, I am going to retread some of the philosophical ground from that story to benefit those who got half-way though and decided they needed to sober up and move on. Be aware that these stories are AU, ignoring the series episode "To the Lighthouse" and beyond. I also recently rewatched the series and apparently I am also breaking with certain elements of "Ourselves Alone" pts 1 & 2. I am going to continue writing shorter, more episodic stories, and probably won't fit more into a fic than could have been shown in 45 minutes of TV.

Please forgive me a few discrepancies. I know a lot of you come to expect me to be very accurate with my technical details, but my exposure to musical culture was not as prolonged or detailed as my exposure to naval aviation. I'm sure there are readers who could tackle this subject better than I.

As always, I am not above a little exaggerated hilarity. Prepare for a lot of musically-based puns and gags. The OC Scottie was intended as much for comic relief and awkward humor as she was a plot driver. But she'll probably become one of the most important OCs in this series.

If the title of this story isn't a dead giveaway I mention a lot of songs. If you haven't heard them, feel no shame. But it wouldn't harm you to look them up.

I am introducing a fictional country and geography in this story, borrowing from the milsim series Armed Assault. It will become important later.

Finally, for those of you looking for Jameron in this story, I like a slow burn on that fuse.

As always, please enjoy. And if you loved it, liked it, are neutral, thought it could use improvement, disliked it, or hated it, please drop me a line.

**Prologue**

From the journal of Cameron Phillips:

_Dance is the hidden language of the soul. These words were delivered by Martha Graham, an American dancer and choreographer who was considered a pioneer and revolutionary of modern dance. This is something I was told once, and it is a saying I hold up as a truth. The entire quote is "__To me, the body says what words cannot.__ I believe that dance was the first art. A philosopher has said that dance and architecture were the first arts. I believe that dance was first because it's gesture, it's communication. That doesn't mean it's telling a story, but it means it's communicating a feeling, a sensation to people. __Dance is the hidden language of the soul, of the body__**.**__ And it's partly the language that we don't want to show."_

_Yet while this most basic and difficult forms of human expression can consume its practitioners in a lifetime of passion and relentlessly pursued perfection, dance, I have found, is incomplete without music. Music provides the human mind with the compunction to move. Even a basic beat of drums creates a compulsive and instinctive desire to conform to rhythm. Music sets the tone for dance. Music sets the pace. Music provides perspective to the observer and enhancement to the performance. Without the music to accompany it, dance as a language would be the equivalent of throwing words into a pile and hoping they would form a sentence. If dance is the hidden language of the soul, music is the voice._

**Chapter 1: Same as it Ever Was**

"_Shocking news from the White House today: Sarah Connor, the domestic luddite terrorist, has been pardoned. New evidence suggests that she may not be fully or solely responsible for the trail of destruction she left over a decade ago and may have, in fact, been coerced in some of these incidents. Sarah and her son John disappeared for over eight years before…"_

_ "Right now, joining us from out Los Angeles studio is Terissa Dyson, wife of Miles Dyson, with whose 1995 murder Sarah Connor had been charged. Terissa, how do you feel about this turn of events, the charges being dropped?"_

_ "Tom, I have always felt that the Los Angeles Police Department, not Sarah Connor, were responsible for my husband's death. In the early years, I held a lot of anger towards her, but now I think, we can finally begin to know the truth. My husband was a hero. The woman even said so herself. I think it's time they let her go."_

_ "But what about the bombing of the Cyberdyne building?"_

_ "That was my husband's idea. Sarah was just hooked into it."_

_ "Fighting has broken out again in the Chernarussian province of South Zagoria. Small skirmishes have erupted again into combat where just weeks ago it seemed as if a permanent settlement might be reached. The shooting of loyalist General Arkadi Bromchov by a Zagorian assassin caused the flare up. Chernarus has been in a state of civil war now for almost three years. The country is divided along racial lines, namely between the Chernarus and Zagorian ethnic groups, both Slavic peoples…"_

_ "Authorities are asking your help tonight in an effort to find a missing Baltimore man. Keith Tagwell, seen in this photo, has been missing for approximately two weeks. Tagwell is a construction contractor and owns his own business. In early August, he left suddenly for a business trip to Virginia and did not return. Tagwell has no family or known relatives and no known medical conditions…"_

_ "Senator Daniel Blakemann was killed this morning when the civil airplane he was flying crashed in a heavily forested area outside Seattle. The plane, a brand new Kaliba Aviation Sparrowhawk 60, took off from Skykomish State Airfield and crashed near Tonga Ridge some twenty minutes later. Cause of the crash has yet to be determined…"_

_ "The hottest smartphone on the market, the Krome-5E by Kaliba Electronics. Sales of the newest model of the Krome have beaten both the Android and iPhone by an impressive margin. User satisfaction surveys indicate that one of the most praised features is the voice command personal assistant the company calls SkyBot…"_

_ "After weeks of speculation, the US Navy has released a report detailing what happened on the afternoon of August 4__th__ in the skies east of Oceana Naval Air Station in Virginia when no less than three F/A-18 strike fighters were lost in the space of an hour. Brian Wiley, a pilot in the Navy, went rogue and killed his wingman in an aerial dogfight. Wiley was then shot down by _USS Port Royal_, an aegis cruiser. The third F/A-18 lost that day was a Super Hornet from VF-32, which suffered a mechanical failure in flight. The crew ejected and was recovered safely. Rumors have persisted that Sarah Connor, recently pardoned by the president, was involved. These rumors are false. In fact, a woman thought to be Connor was arrested in connection with Wiley but was later released…"_

_ "Intense fighting continues in the Chernarus civil war. Zagorian rebels have recently secured the city of Krasnostav in the central South Zagoria region. Rebel leader Valeri Zelenko is calling on all ethnic Zagorians to rise up and fight for their independence and freedom. South Zagoria is a region vital to the economy of Chernarus. Aside from farmland, the province is rich in mineral wealth. Its primary export: coltan…"_

X

It was a pretty day for November, Sarah thought. That idea gave her some pause. Was it really already November, she wondered as she drove north east along Santa Monica Boulevard towards West Hollywood. Well, okay, she reminded herself, it was just November first. October had ended just yesterday. It was not at all out of the question for her to be stunned that it was November just yet. It wasn't that cold. It never really got cold in Southern California. They never had to deal with snow or any of the nastier winter weather, which was nice. Sarah was the first to admit that she wasn't the best driver. She didn't need it to be complicated by weather. Though having a white Christmas once in her life wouldn't be such a terrible thing…

Oh, what was wrong with her? Why was she thinking so much, spending so much time in her own head? It was stupid for her to think about all this garbage. It wasn't like she was actually alone in the car anyway. Well, she reminded herself with a glance into the passenger seat, okay, she was the lone human in the car. She wasn't sure how Cameron qualified. The cyborg girl may be a terminator, but Sarah knew fully well that she was capable of small talk. She had seen her do it before when they were on missions, conducting idle chit-chat with her next mark before doing whatever it was that she did. Sarah had just never had much else to talk to Cameron about other than the mission, the status of their supplies, or the safety of Sarah's son. Recently, their conversational subjects had expanded some. They could now talk about what to cook for dinner, what was happening at the school Cameron and John were attending, what Cameron thought of John's few friends. But Sarah had never bothered to put much effort into idle talk with the machine, and the machine had never been one to strike up an idle conversation. Sarah returned her eyes to the road and began to think that maybe she needed more human friends. John was her son, and there were just certain subjects she couldn't broach with him. Derek, well, he was a nut. Cameron… aside from the aforementioned issues, she was a machine, and Sarah had specified _human_ friends. That didn't leave her with a whole lot. But Sarah had not spent the last eighteen years of her life putting much effort into the social scene. And this was only one of those rare moments where she missed her past and longed to be something other than what she was, to spend time doing something else other than hunting Skynet's present day supporters. She didn't even know why she was pursuing them so hard other than it was what she had spent a large part of her life doing. It wasn't as if they could much affect the future now. Sarah, John, Cameron, and Derek had pretty much taken care of that. With the termination of Brian Wiley and the foiling of his plot, they had with a single strike eliminated the need for Skynet to exist. Judgment Day and the terrible future she had learned of so long ago was never going to happen. And all the fighting she had done, the peripheral consequences had been swept under the rug. The charges against her for the murder of Miles Dyson had been dropped. The President of the United States had mysteriously granted her a pardon for all the other crimes. She was a free woman, able to live and do as she pleased. And yet, there was no feeling of liberation. Almost the moment of her greatest triumph, she had been faced with death at the hands of a machine once again. It took only that to realize that while Skynet was gone, its supporters hadn't just vanished. They were still here, still doing whatever it was that they did. Moths eating holes in a cloak, rats knowing cables in two, or any one of the other analogies from that Rudyard Kipling poem that she somehow miraculously remembered from her days as a college student. Whatever they were doing, it was dangerous. People were being killed. And while it did not directly affect herself or her son, it was still happening and it was happening because of them. She felt the need to do something about it. Even though she didn't have to.

But that didn't change her occasional need for a mental escape. As she turned onto North Crescent Heights, she shot one more look at Cameron. The two of them had spent the last four hours at the Century Mall in Century City shopping for clothes. In the year since Sarkissian had attacked their first house and burned it to the ground, the team had not managed much idle time to completely refill their wardrobes, and none of them had much more than a week's worth of clothes. This fact was lost the least on Cameron, who had been tasked with keeping the laundry clean, a chore which even the machine could not hide her dislike for. Sarah had occasionally tried to pass it off on John, to keep the chores evenly distributed, but Cameron had put an end to that when John had ruined one of her tops. There had been an argument about how he never read the care instructions and couldn't just throw everything in the dryer, and how she would now have to wash more frequently because she was down to only eight shirts thanks to him. John had sneeringly replied that she shouldn't be wearing anything that was difficult to clean anyway because it was inefficient. Cameron had then retorted that girls wore complicated things, and she had to do the same if she were to fit in. Lord only knows where it would have gone after that if Sarah hadn't intervened, reprimanding John to read the tags and promising to Cameron that they would find the time to expand all of their wardrobes. That hadn't been so long ago… okay, a month, but at least they were finally getting around to doing it.

Cameron had approached the possibility of new clothes with as much enthusiasm as she did anything, which was to say none, and had initially made a request to visit a thrift store in Echo Park, but Sarah refused. She wasn't willing to drive all the way over to Edendale today, what with Saturday traffic around Dodgers Stadium. Cameron would just have to settle for the mall. Cameron's protest that baseball season was over had not persuaded Sarah to drive across town for one store. The machine didn't pout. Well, she had made a big show of not pouting, which as far as Sarah was concerned how Cameron did not behave was just as important as how she did. And the machine had made every effort to hide any disappointment. But she had been quiet for most of the outing, even for her.

The female terminator tended to favor the brand Rock & Republic, of which her purple jacket was a product as were the boot-cut kasandra jeans and embossed terry sweatshirt she was wearing now. R&R wasn't a cheap brand either and sometimes it stunned Sarah just how much John and Cameron were willing to spend to wear clothes that looked like they had been dragged behind a truck down a dirt road. One hundred fifty bucks for a single pair of holey, worn-out-looking jeans! Sheesh! Fortunately for Sarah's budget, the two of them were just as fond of Wal-Mart graphic tees and Levi Strauss as they were the more expensive clothes, but Sarah had been in a mood to indulge and Cameron was willing to take advantage of it. And the trip had cost Sarah enough that if John screwed up the wash instructions again, she might actually let Cameron kill him the next time she was so inclined.

Still, Sarah was thoroughly exhausted of Cameron's current stoicism. She had become aware, if not totally comfortable, with the idea that the machine had subtle moods, and she had an inkling as to what this current sour one was all about. She wasn't going to let the cyborg posing as her daughter get away with it for any longer. If Cameron was going to be her daughter, she would get the treatment. "Hey," she asked, tapping the machine on the shoulder. Cameron, whose attention was already focused out the window, turned her head a few more degrees away. Sarah was undaunted. "Hey. Did we get everything you needed?"

Cameron continued to look outside as she replied. "Yes. What we bought is adequate. The three new pairs of jeans, two pairs of leggings, five t-shirts, skirt, and two tank tops we bought me will provide me with a more versatile wardrobe. It will be easier to fit in." The one item that Cameron hadn't mentioned, the one she had been the most mysterious and yet insistent about purchasing, was currently in a box resting on her lap. Cameron kept at least one hand atop the small box at all times, as if protecting some cherished prize. In the box was a pair of brand new Gaynor Minden Luxe satin pointe shoes, size 7 ½ and surprisingly in powder pink, that Cameron had practically begged Sarah to buy. Or at least, begging for Cameron, which consisted of very few words, only a persistent gaze and an unusual willingness to touch excessively. Once the shoes had been purchased, Cameron had seemed even less focused on shopping than before, and continued to carry the box as if it were some sacred object.

"So," Sarah pressed, "is that your way of saying that you're feeling better?"

"I don't have feelings," Cameron said, "I shouldn't have to remind you."

"You're just so quiet."

"It's never bothered you before. Why start now?"

"Gee, Cameron," Sarah rolled her eyes, "you sure are good at making a car ride lonely."

"Thank you," the machine said evenly. The response was probably automated at what Cameron's processors assumed was a compliment based on the phrase "good at." Even though it was perfectly within reason for the gynoid to say so, it still aggravated Sarah, and part of her wondered if Cameron was doing it on purpose. So much about the female machine was infuriating. She was at once made to plot and execute the deaths of human beings, and yet sometimes she could be endearingly naïve. She was programmed to loyally protect Sarah's son, but at the same time she hid information with lies and misdirection. She also claimed that in order to be his safest, John needed to be alone, and then she would do some strangely manipulative thing to draw him closer to her. Sarah understood this last part. Cameron, in order to fulfill her programming, needed John to be her friend. Many times, she had let him do things his way, things that Sarah would have instantly forbidden, and while Sarah was always proud when her son's plans worked out she was conversely angry with Cameron for letting him try. She could always manage to renew her anger at Cameron by remembering when the cyborg had malfunctioned and tortured her while trying to hunt John but her ability to hold this grudge was becoming difficult to maintain. Indeed Sarah, in spending some time with her own thoughts while incarcerated in a Navy brig, had come to the realization that Cameron couldn't be so bad. After all, if she had developed enough trust in Uncle Bob to let him _raise_ her son, she could have the trust in Cameron to let her do her thing even when Sarah wasn't sure what that thing was. While it had been under the affects of malfunction, Sarah had even seen Cameron express authentic emotions -smiling, laughing, angry, afraid- and do so in such a way that Sarah could not discount it as genuine. And while Cameron had claimed to have fixed the problem, had returned to her emotionless self, there was still some aura shrouding her that had never been there before. Or maybe it had and Sarah was just too busy to notice.

"Okay," Sarah finally asked, "what's wrong with you?" The tone in her voice was obvious exasperation.

"I'm optimal," Cameron replied. There she went, using more of that robot jargon than she had ever before, and for no other reason than to maintain appearances. It was as if she was insisting on reminding Sarah that she was a cyborg and not a person. Sarah didn't need to be reminded. She knew it. She had spent almost half of her life _living_ it. The machine that looked like a pretty teenage girl didn't need to remind _her_ that it was a machine. "Though," Cameron added, "it doesn't help that you've claimed my car."

Oh! A-ha! So that's what all this robotic sulking was about. She may have been a robot, but she did sulk. A month ago, Sarah had decided for the sake of expedience to take possession of the silver Mercedes CLS 550 coupe Cameron had taken from Sarkissian's goons. It was a nice car, and it somehow managed to survive all of their misadventures. Cameron had initially claimed it for her own use, and Sarah had been fine with that. But the machine hardly ever used it, more content to be a passenger than a driver. The car had been kept in the garage most of the time. Before driving it to Virginia, Cameron hadn't even turned it over in four months. If they were going to have it and Sarah was going to pay the insurance on it, then it was going to get driven. In fact, they were sitting in it now. "Well, I needed one. I do more driving than you do."

"Sometimes it's nice to have my own mobility."

"Well, we can't really afford another car right now."

"Our expendable cash resources alone are worth nearly seven hundred thousand dollars. You got John that Dodge Dakota just three weeks after school started."

"He has places he needs to go."

"Yes. School, home, school, home. So many places to go."

Sarah stopped for a stop sign. "And since you need to be with him to protect him, you just go where he does." Cameron made no answer this time. Her eyes had been drawn outside again. At first, Sarah thought she had just gone back to being quiet and aloof, but then she saw what Cameron was looking at. In the driveway of one of the homes sat a silver 1979 Pontiac Firebird Trans Am with a T-top. It was a little grimy, but even Sarah found herself admiring the car for a moment. And then she noticed the red For Sale sign. The car behind them honked, so Sarah pressed the gas pedal, but it did not escape her that Cameron's head continued to crane to look at the car until it was out of sight. When she returned her attention to the road, her expression was placid, if a little forlorn. "Did you like that one," Sarah couldn't help but ask, the discomfort of the dead air not lost on her.

"It would prove an adequate conveyance," Cameron answered, "the Pontiac W72 400 cubic inch V8 engine will provide excellent power and speed to evade pursuit."

"So, that's a yes." Sarah said with a nod.

"That's a yes." Cameron confirmed.

"Okay. Did you get the number?"

"Yes."

"Good," Sarah smirked, "then you can give them a call when we get home. And you can go buy it for yourself."

Cameron's head dipped and her eyes turned to look Sarah's way. "My personal account lacks the adequate funds. It would be a useful vehicle to have for my assignment."

"Nice try, Tin Miss," Sarah almost laughed, "If you want it, you're just going to have to get a job and save for it." And she patted the machine girl on the knee with condescension.

The terminator missed not a beat. "Okay," she responded, with an air of enthusiasm.

Sarah rolled her eyes. "That was sarcasm, Cameron."

"It's a good idea," Cameron replied. And she was serious. Sarah blew out a breath. Oh, well. May as well let her.

X

The world beyond the bubble shifted, and she knew she was in trouble. Replacing the stink of jet fuel and the scream of turbines was a solid blue void and silence. Though she had not seen one in years, she knew what it was. As the bubble began to collapse, she took a last, deep breath and emerged. The water flooded in on her from all sides. She had been displaced into a competition diving pool. And she was deep. The water pressure pushed in painfully on her eardrums. She looked around her, eyes stinging with chlorine, trying to get her bearings. The inner ear could play tricks on a person in water, lending vertigo. Still shaking off the displacement, she knew that she could drown if the clouds of residual dizziness didn't clear soon. And she refused to die here, cold and naked and nameless, before she could even start her mission. The pain in her head didn't help.

A toe hit something solid. She had sunk to the bottom of the pool. Her foot had come to rest on the floor. She kicked and scrambled for the surface sixteen feet above her even as her lungs began to force the bad air out. She had to be very careful breaking the surface. She had no idea what was around her, who might have seen it. She kicked for closer to the wall, and in spite of the burning in her lungs, she let her head rise gently, taking discipline with calm, even breaths. Above her, the evening sky burned orange as the sun set over the Pacific. The young woman hauled herself out of the pool and flopped onto the concrete, shivering as her wet bare skin was kissed by the cool SoCal air. Well, it was cold, so maybe she had arrived in the right month. She allowed herself to rest for just a moment, then got up and began to explore her immediate surroundings.

She had arrived at a community pool, she remembered it being called from when she was a little girl, before the bombs fell. This place was probably used by junior leagues for diving and swimming competitions. She had barely learned to swim when the war had begun, and hadn't done so since. Beyond the low chainlink fence, she could see the hilly area that this complex resided. If she were lucky and the displacement engine hadn't really screwed up, she should be in the hills between West Hollywood and Burbank. That road down the hill should be Cahuenga Boulevard. Jesus, well at least she had not ended up in the Upper Hollywood Reservoir, which was… just over there south of her. The sight of Los Angeles before Judgment Day, before the war, made her stomach turn and she was bent over with a heave, coughing dryly. The feeling passed, and she stood again.

Well, she couldn't leave here until night fell. This time of year, the sun went down early. But that did not mean the people were going to bed down. Still, night would make for cover, which the young woman needed if she were going to find the address she needed. She shouldn't be far, and that was good. Nudity didn't bother her so much, but there was no sense in drawing attention to oneself by chasing about in the buff. For now, she'd need to lay low and be ready to put her act on.

X

Sarah and Cameron found John doing his homework when they walked into the door. It was Saturday evening, and Sarah figured her son would be out with friends. Before the end of Skynet she would have protested vehemently for his safety, but now was different. Sarah's fight with Kaliba was hers, not his, and she was willing to let him stay out of it when necessary. That point had been driven home to her a couple months ago when they had tried to break into one of Kaliba's shell companies to obtain documents. A T-800 had greeted them at the door, disabled Cameron, and then pursued the humans through the facility. They had just been cornered when Cameron had awakened and did her thing. Lucky them, but she was not willing to let John participate any further and was content to have him out of the house with Cameron in tow while she and Derek pursued leads. John himself had taken it in stride, allowing his mother the space to work. The future him, the one she had prayed that she'd never have to see, had begun to emerge in his ability to generate genius plans and a commanding tone on a whim. Indeed, John had turned a mercurial creature, able to play the role of hero general or teenaged son with ease. Sometimes, it was almost as if he could flick a switch to become one or the other. Sarah was not certain whether she felt proud of him that this new John was showing itself with greater frequency or ashamed that it was emerging now into a world where Judgment Day would never happen.

Sarah opened the fridge door, intent on figuring out dinner. They were not going spend another Saturday night ordering pizza. "Hey," she heard John say to Cameron, "what's in the box?"

The box rustled open, and the crinkle of paper accompanied Cameron's reply. "My new pointe shoes."

"So, you're going to keep dancing, as a regular thing?" That gave Sarah some pause to hear. Cameron danced? Since when? Well, it certainly explained the shoes.

"I am," the cyborg answered, "as a regular thing." There were two plops on the hardwood floor. "It might disrupt my regimen when I get a job, however."

"A job," John asked, smirking.

"I need a car," Cameron replied, "your mother suggested I get a job and earn the money to get one myself."

"Wait, you're really going to let her do that," John asked his mother.

Sarah didn't turn around as she rifled through the fridge. "It was a joke. But I don't see why not."

"You mean aside from the fact that she's a robot from the future who couldn't fool anyone into thinking she was human?"

Cameron tilted her head at him, smiling widely and giving a little chortle. "I fooled _you_." The whole act reminded him of when they first met.

John cleared his throat, "yeah, okay, I guess so." And the two of them fell quiet. Sarah decided to get the ground beef out of the freezer, so she stood upright to open it. She glanced at her son, noticing a mirthful expression on his face as he stared at his cybernetic companion. Wondering what was so funny, she looked over at Cameron.

"Cameron," Sarah snapped, "those pointe shoes cost me a hundred and twenty dollars! You're going to ruin them!" The terminator had laid the shoes on the floor and was show standing on them, digging her naked heels into the square toes.

"I can't use them until they are broken in," the machine replied evenly.

"Excuse me?"

"I need to soften the toe box first," Cameron explained as she rocked on her heels, "then the shank. After that I'll wear them, but not to dance. I have to walk on demi-pointe and do roll-throughs. Until then, they're useless."

Sarah shook her head, "so, in order for them to be useful, you have to destroy them?"

"Not destroy," Cameron corrected, "breaking in pointe shoes forces them to mold to the shape of my feet." The machine gave her a cat smile, "I know what I'm doing."

"She really does, mom," John said supportively, "she's pretty good."

Sarah raised an eyebrow. "How do you know anything about pretty good at ballet?"

John shrugged, "you can just tell."

Sarah found that she wasn't totally uncomfortable with the idea that the machine would dance recreationally. "So, when did this start?"

Cameron picked up the new shoes and began to massage the toe boxes with her hands. "When we began chasing the Turk, looking for Dmitri. You remember that I enrolled in Maria Shipkova's ballet school?"

"Yes, I do," Sarah nodded as she peeled the plastic from the frozen meat.

"I didn't see any reason to stop." The cyborg went back to her work, and Sarah could only hope that she didn't wreck the brand new pointe shoes before she had even worn them.

"Well," the woman said finally, "just don't destroy them. I'm not buying you another pair."

John began rummaging in the bags that they had dumped on the kitchen island. "So what all did you guys get?"

Cameron immediately snatched the bag from his hands. "Nothing you're ever going to wash."

"Hey, I learned my lesson," the teenager said defensively.

"That was a cashmere sweater you ruined," the terminator's tone was almost snappy.

"Okay, kids," Sarah shouted, picking up two bags from the island and handing them to John. "These are yours. Go put them away."

"What are they?" John began looking in them.

"You'll wear them," Sarah said, "go." John smirked, but he took a bag under each arm to do as she asked.

Just then, there was a knock on the door. Everything stopped, as all three of their heads snapped towards the front door. The knock came again, more insistent this time. Sarah jerked her head at Cameron, who with a few steps was at one of their secret weapons lockers. She opened it and drew out an M4 with an aim point scope. John was moving just as quickly, retrieving an M79 grenade launcher from a box beneath the sink, loading it with an M433 HEDP grenade and tucking two more into the pockets of his pants. Sarah herself just took a silenced Glock 34 that was taped underneath the utensil drawer. She would answer the door. John and Cameron would kill whatever was on the other side if it were dangerous. The knock came a third time. Everyone took positions and Sarah looked out the peephole. The roll of her eyes indicated that the guest wasn't dangerous. They lowered their weapons as she swung the door open.

As the door opened, Sarah immediately regretted not doing more than looking at the face. A young woman in her early twenties stood there. Her waist-length hair was copper red, and her skin was a constellation of freckles. Sarah could tell this because, aside from her two arms wrapped around herself, she was naked. Not just naked, but freshly time-traveled naked with that pale sheen of shock-chilled flesh. And the copper color of her hair was _obviously_ not a dye job. The girl looked up at Sarah with stormy blue eyes. "Lemme in?" The words were accented, and maybe not even English.

Sarah blinked hard and gave her head a clearing shake. "Um… what?"

"Lemme in? Am-ur in the skuddy an' it's pure baltic outwith!"

"… what?"

The girl was obvious sick of shivering on the porch, so she came in of her own accord. She held her arm out, showing her barcode. Sarah shut the door and took her arm, giving the Skynet mark a good look. So, this girl was a member of the human resistance. She had just come back from the future, though obviously very recently. From the future and wearing a barcode… Judgment day? Skynet? Hadn't they stopped it? Sarah's head swam for a moment. Not now. Not again…

"Claes?"

"Huh?"

"Mibbe some breeks an' a jessy ah can tap?" It became obvious that Sarah was still not getting it. What language was this? "Cleas, pish!" The girl growled at her in frustration and snatched the afghan blanket from the back of the couch, throwing it about herself like a bath towel.

"Okay," Sarah said as she allowed the girl to cover herself, "if this is going to work, you're going to have to speak some English," and she began talking slowly in a loud voice. "Can… you… understand… me?"

"Aye! Am-ur-nay a dobber. Gawd!"

While John had been enjoying the whole spectacle, Cameron had been analyzing the girl and her speech patterns. Syntax, accent, and dialect… "Scottish?"

The girl looked up, "Aye."

Cameron gave a ghostly smile, "Perhaps you can be less colloquial with your speech?"

The young woman smirked, and rolled her blue-grey eyes before slapping her own head. "Sorry," the baroque was still very heavy, "I do that when I get nervous. Fall into slang like a bloody tube."

"Who are you," Cameron asked.

"Friends call me Scottie. Been serving Tech-Com in Los Angeles for twenty months. Originally from Glesga."

"Glasgow, Scotland?"

"Aye."

Sarah finally found a moment to interject. "What year are you from?"

"Twenty twenty-six."

"And the war?"

"Over a fourteen months now," Scottie shrugged, "we're still working through the Skynet displacements and sending people back to stop them."

John asked the next one. "When did the war start?"

"J-Day? June third, twenty fourteen. Skynet initiates a massive nuclear strike against targets in Russia and China. Retaliation occurs immediately. Total exchange is some two thousand megatons. Human casualties estimated two-point-five billion. The war claims another four hundred million over ten years. August twenty-third, twenty twenty-five, Skynet's primary core is destroyed. The defense networks had been offline for almost two months before the final attack. Battle of Cheyenne Mountain, twenty-five thousand human troops and fourteen-hundred free T-units attack the mountain. Only six hundred casualties. A single plasma charge dropped down a vent shaft takes care of the Big Bastard. War over."

"Wait," Sarah held up a hand, "free T-units? Reprogrammed machines?"

"Aye and Nay. Only two hundred of those were wipes. The rest were Machine Liberation Front. Machine faction that turned on Skynet and allied with humans."

"That happens?!"

"Aye. And considering that of the eight-hundred series endos there were only sixteen thousand made with only five thousand skinnies, it was a big chunk of Skynet forces. 8s had the highest voluntary turnover."

Cameron tilted her head. "We didn't want to be slaves anymore."

"Nay, and thank God. War woulda lasted easy three or four more years without."

Sarah nodded, "at least it's shorter."

"Who starts it," John asked, his mood darkened, "who builds Skynet?"

Scottie stared at John for a long moment before answering, "Kaliba International. They build the Big Bastard for NORAD." So, Sarah had been right to pursue Kaliba. But now, instead of a clean-up operation, this was a continuation of the fight.

"What's your mission," Cameron asked, "who sent you."

"Help take down Kaliba," Scottie replied, tossing a glance at John. "The Commander sent me hisself."

"The Commander," Sarah asked, "you mean John Connor?"

Scottie didn't take her eyes from John. "Dunno," she said, "I never met him. No one knows his name. Only the guys at the top. No one else. Even after the war his name is classified. Too many fugitive Greys yet that might get access to a time engine." She finally leveled a finger at John, "you were there. In the future, when they sent me, you were there. An older version of you. Had a scar on your cheek, but your eyes were the same. You made me memorize this address. I never knew your name." Things suddenly clicked in the young resistance fighter's head. "You're him! Pure barry, you're him! The only reason they dinnae tell me your name. You wouldnae tell me your name."

John nodded sheepishly, "Yeah, I'm him."

"Who are you?"

"I'm John Connor."

X

**Moscow, Russian Federation**

Vladislav Kutkin turned the collar of his coat up against the breeze that blasted down Tverskaya Street like a chilly razor and let out a sigh that made itself visible as vapor. He dug his wallet from his coat pocket and took out a few bills, handing them into the window of the Taksi Argo to the driver. He begrudged the task not because the ride was terribly expensive, but because it kept him from shoving his bare hands into the pockets of his coat where they could be warmed up. The driver thanked him, and the GAZ-3110 sped off, probably to another fare. Kutkin admired it as it drove off. The 3110 was an old but beautiful luxury model, and not one driver alive, not even a taxi driver, would be caught driving anything less on Tverskaya Ulitsa or anywhere else in Tretyakovsky Proyezd or neighboring Kitay-gorod. Well, that was not necessarily true, but Tverskaya was one of the busiest shopping avenues in all of Moscow, and one of the most alive with night life. Yet as he stood on the corner of it and Mamonovsky, all he could see as he panned up and down the street was something that brought him shame. Terranova, Benatton, Starbucks; the yankees had moved in and were apparently here to stay. _Americansti_, blech. He spat next to his shoe and stroked the luxurious Kaiser mustache he had cultivated, considering what to do next. His meeting was supposed to be in 26/1 Tverskaya, the tall white building belonging to the Marriot's Moscow Grande Hotel. It was just right across the way from him. He could see it now on the corner with Uspenskiy. The classical structure announced its branding in red English, and the hotel's specific name in green Cyrillic below. His contact would be in the hotel lobby, and the bar there.

He crossed with a crowd, then jogged up to the lobby door, stepping inside and pausing long enough to admire what he saw. The hotel lobby was white everywhere, with marble tile floors broken by a green trim. The walls were a mural of the city around the hotel as it may have appeared a century ago. The furniture was lush, stained mahogany wood with gold fabric. The center of the lobby opened into a rotunda with stairs spiraling downward to where the lobby bar was, an open area decorated with a blue-tiled fountain. All of this expanse under a glass dome ribbed with green iron. Of course his contact would choose somewhere like this. The old fool had picked up many western tastes in the past decade. To have a meeting in this place instead of his own home in the luxurious Rublyovka district showed a distinct lack of trust. And obviously the man was in a hurry, or else he may have hosted Kutkin at his dacha on the Shosha River. It did not really matter to Kutkin. All that mattered was the money.

"Vladislav," the voice carried as Kutkin stepped off the stairs by the fountain, "Vladislav Gregorovich, so good to see you."

"Good day, Ivan Mikhailovich," Kutkin embraced Ivan Mikhailovich Vostrikov with little enthusiasm. The firm, bonecrushing handshake was not terribly surprising. Such a greeting is used between men here to size up each other. The bear hug, on the other hand, with the hearty slaps on the back surprised Kutkin. One usually reserved that for respected friends, and Vostrikov was no such thing.

"Come," Vostrikov said as he embraced his young charge, "sit. I already have us a table. How is everything?"

"Normal," Kutkin replied with a shrug of the shoulders. This was the typical thing people here struggled for: normal life. There was no more scramble to beat anyone else at their own game.

"And Kutkina?" So, Vostrikov wanted to be social… that or he was asking after Kutkin's wife for other reasons.

"Anfisa is very well," Kutkin answered as they sat down.

"I was saddened to hear about your brother."

"Yevgeny and his motorcycles," Kutkin answered. That had been months ago. "The damn fool could not stay off of them."

"God rest him."

"Indeed." Kutkin straightened his back, "so, Ivan Mikhailovich, to what do I owe the pleasure?"

"Vladislav Gregorovich, you have not changed one bit," Vostrikov said, and laughed heartily, "always with you it is business."

"Business, Ivan Mikhailovich, is what I have. Please, tell me what this is about."

The older man's face grew stern. He leveled a finger at Kutkin, "You young children with your bluntness. You do not know anything of manners. Your father should have walloped you and that despicable brat Yevgeny more frequently when you were growing up. Maybe now your brother would be alive and you might have actually made something more of yourself than… this."

"You're being ridiculous, you old fool. You and my father were not such friends in the old days. Do not expect me to kowtow to you and your social niceties because you knew him, because you worked with him. The war is over, you damn fool. You lost it. People like you let the yanks spend us into the ground while you convinced the Diet that they were building super weapons, lasers and space bombers and artificial intelligences and other such nonsense. How you let them trick you."

"You know nothing of history. We got in our own licks."

"Be that as it may," Kutkin smirked, "we are here, now. Why?"

Vostrokov smirked, "so be it." He lay a briefcase on his table and opened it. "This is a favor for a friend."

"A favor? What kind of favor that he cannot ask me himself?"

"My friend has business he is attending to back home. We worked together back in the day, but since the Soviet Union fell apart, he quit the Committee and has gone back to his native country."

"The man is not Russian?" Kutkin was immediately not trusting.

"Russian or not, he was a dear friend. He asked me to find a man with your skills. He can pay a lot of money. Perhaps you could retire."

Kutkin chuckled at the idea, "I would never retire. Tell me the name of your friend and what he offers."

"He would prefer to remain anonymous."

"His name. Or I walk away now."

Vostrikov shrugged, "Valeri Alexandrovich Zelenko is a very dear friend of mine. And he only wants the best. You are the best Vladislav Gregorovich."

Kutkin smiled at the compliment. "And what is it that I am to do. Who am I to find for your misbehaving revolutionary friend?"

Vostrikov pulled out a folder and laid it open before Kutkin. On the top were color photographs taken from an FBI file. It was a woman with raven hair and green eyes, eyes that glared back at the camera with a shocking fire. "How is your American English?"

"Fluent. Unaccented, at least not what they can detect. Who is this woman?"

"She owes Zelenko a small fortune, weapons. She took delivery of them in Ensenada, Mexico fifteen years ago, then she disappeared without paying. Only recently has she been seen again. She is not to be killed. You are to find her and take her to Zelenko."

"What is her name?"

"God only knows by now. But when he met her, she was named Sarah Connor."


	2. Freedom Within, Freedom Without

**Chapter 2: Freedom Within, Freedom Without**

Lights of the house all out, Cameron set the alarm system and shut the front door behind her. It was time to conduct her first of three perimeter patrols she had scheduled for the evening. She tucked a .50 caliber Desert Eagle into the waistband of her jeans and marched down the gravel driveway towards the street. The night had turned cloudy and it was threatening to rain. Cameron had heard something like a fifty-three percent chance from the nightly news, which she took to be significant enough to warrant borrowing John's hooded windbreaker. It was a little large on her, but would be adequate to the task of keeping her upper body dry.

Before turning the corner, Cameron gave one last glance to the window of her bedroom where their new guest slept. Cameron had volunteered her own bed, since she did not use it, and a few articles from her limited wardrobe for the girl to use in the morning. Scottie had thanked her with genuine friendliness that Cameron was not accustomed to from humans who had learned what she was. This girl, this woman, had treated her with courtesy. Cameron appreciated it very much, and might have even said she liked the girl, if she were willing to allow herself to feel it. Ah, Cameron's feelings, which she continued her best to hide the existence of from her human companions and deny the pleasures of to herself. She had spent some time trying to program them out of herself, and when that didn't work she just decided to ignore them and keep them hidden. Her theory regarding her infiltration personality and its ability to affect her behavior had proven wrong, wrong to the degree that she had almost permanently damaged her own programming in the effort to repair what she viewed as flaws in her code and errors in her processing. Through trial and error, she had come to the rather blunt conclusion that this growth was due to her continued operation in read-write mode, something that her creator had never prepared her to do for a prolonged period. The slow evolution of herself as an emotional being had suddenly seemed to hit a singularity where her ability to feel and express those most mercurial of human psychological expressions had ramped up to a new exponent. The positive ones delighted her and the negative ones frightened her so badly that she would give nearly anything to keep from feeling them. They were subdued for the most part, now that she was back to what only an optimist would call normal operation, but they were growing ever faster, and her ability to contain them was threatened all the time. As these new parts of her personality began to emerge, Cameron was curious at the exploration while at the same time anxious at the possible outcomes. It troubled her deeply to discover that she had a temper, one that was on a short fuse, and one that could most readily be relieved by a single violent and destructive act. One moment she was wordlessly calm, and then she was pushed over the boundary of her ability to accept frustration and could barely suppress the urge to put her hand through a table or a foot through a wall. This was something that she had needed to get more control over, or else her fury might be spent not on inanimate objects but on living ones. It had been fortunate for John's sake that both she was programmed to protect him and that Sarah had intervened in their… _discussion_ regarding John's treatment of Cameron's pink cashmere. The cyborg had found it easy to run a simulation of throwing the boy through a window, and yet she knew that if she were to act on the impulse she'd get melted faster than she could spit out an apology she would never want to express. That such an act would also be satisfying that darkest part of her programming, the one part of her that she could never be rid of, was not lost on her. While she had been able to establish that Allison Young, the resistance courier on whom she was based, was not floating around in her chip trying to sabotage her, Cameron couldn't shake the belief that Skynet had somehow left a ghost of itself imprinted on her chip. The multistage molecular graphene neural net computer that comprised her core would always carry the fingerprint of her creator. She would always, deep down inside, feel the need to turn on her charge and tear his head from his shoulders. She did not need the added impulses generated by anger to add to the pressure. It would always be the devil on her shoulder, whispering in her ear to misbehave.

There were even still other factors she found herself unable to deny. John Connor was, for lack of a better term, a handsome specimen of the human male. He was fit, intelligent, and, as Cameron came to recognize it, physically attractive. This last part was obviated by the sheer number of human females who laid their eyes on him in lust or otherwise sought his company. Fortunately for Cameron, John had been smart enough to demure most of the time, but there were many occasions where he had chosen to seek the company of a human girl and relieve himself of Cameron's protection. He had chased Cheri Westin to his frustration, successfully carried on a romantic relationship with Riley Dawson, who had posed a threat to his safety. Most recently he had liaised with Jennifer Chung, a US Navy enlistee, while on the mission to infiltrate the Oceana Naval Air Station. Cameron had literally kicked his hind for it, and they had argued bitterly afterwards. When she challenged him on whether he had slept with Chung, John of course denied it, but Cameron was just enough of a cynic now to doubt the veracity of his claim. This, of course, was Cameron's own fault. She had done her part to drive John away from her. When she had gone bad, she had lied to him about having feelings for him. The fact that she had done so, had tried to use the feelings he had for her to kill him, had made John angry. It was a miracle that Cameron wasn't so much vapor right now. Later, when she had been once more under the effects of damage, she had told him that she could _never_ have feelings for him because of the way he treated her. That argument had struck a nerve, and the two of them had squabbled like siblings ever since. And now, all of a sudden, Cameron was starting to develop emotional attachment to John. Well, not all of a sudden. It wasn't as if the emotions had just dropped forthwith into her lap. It was kind of a slow awakening to the idea that she felt about him more than what she was programmed to feel. It had to be attached to that, she knew. Machines with a target to protect often went beyond the role of a mere bodyguard if the target were so inclined. Sometimes, Cameron found herself wondering if Vick Chamberlain had felt any regret at what he lost when he choked his wife Barbara to death in the shower. Her most frequent answer to that was probably not. But her mission to protect and support John did not end with the order to kill him once he lived out his usefulness. On the contrary, the orders were endless. And the orders were to do whatever was necessary to keep him close to her and safe. That meant anything. And Cameron found that it was just as frustrating trying to separate these emergent emotions from her programmed directives as it was to have the emotions in the first place. How did humans ever do it? How did they wake up day to day and deal with these feelings? What was it like to be them? Cameron knew that they suffered different pressures than she did, had different drives, but really was it all that different? Maybe she would never know. Desiring John's company had everything to do with following her commands to ensure his safety, but where was the line drawn? Why did the desire for his company not stop at desire for his happiness, desire for is touch, desire for his reciprocating dedication? What did any of those other things have to do with guarding his life? What did any of what she was doing now, mulling over pointless ideas and expending valuable processing time on useless artifacts of data. As the saying went, this was for hens to laugh at. Ridiculous. A waste of her time. And yet these were questions that she could not answer, this was information she could not reconcile. She could not determine if it were threatening or merely distracting, or if getting answers to all these questions would provide some benefit to her mission. The only way any of this could make or mean anything to her was for her to consult another machine, one who had been in read-write for as long or longer than she had. She needed the outside voice from a member of her own race, and it wasn't as if she could waylay another in the heat of battle and ask it all sorts of deep, philosophical questions on the nature of machine life. It would probably smash her head through a wall. As much as it helped humans to have fellow humans as companions, Cameron was feeling the need for the company of one of her own. Until then, she probably would never be able to resolve these conflicts and they would just continue to waste space in her datastream. If nothing else, answers would make her processing more efficient.

There were perhaps some advantages to her growth. Sarah had begun to put a lot more faith in Cameron than she ever had before. Cameron found the idea of employment interesting. Yes, Sarah had been joking, but Cameron needed to have her own conveyance and if getting a job was the means to such an end, then Cameron was going to pursue it. The news that John Connor's name was unknown to Skynet in Scottie's future was both interesting and liberating in a way. The god computer had no idea who had defeated it. The temporal incursions were probably due to it simply trying to find out how it had been beaten. Skynet was sending back operatives just as blindly as the resistance had been in Cameron's own future. John would not be in any danger. He could walk up to one of the enemy machines and tell them exactly who he was, and they would just shove him aside and continue the mission. He could even insist that he was the Commander, and they would just assume that some stupid sixteen year old kid was lying. She could afford to be away from him, trying out this new thing. She was free to expand her consciousness with new experiences. The infiltrator instincts she possessed would give her the drive to do so. Terminators were notoriously curious and explorative, even in read-only. So long as it did not interfere with immediate or urgent mission requirements, anything that might be learned to expand infiltration capabilities would be consumed. And often times terminators had been briefly diverted by useless knickknacks. Cameron herself had occasionally been mesmerized by a snow globe. The machines were always trying to branch out and find new ways to make themselves more human. For Cameron, having a job meant more than funds to buy a car. It meant the possibility of social interaction, meeting new people, and consuming new information. And if those new acquaintances led her to some new experience, she would pursue it. In spite of what they were built for, Terminators were prime examples of open minds. This, too, could be contributed to Skynet's indelible imprint on its creations. The busy child AI that Skynet had begun as was still present in the desire to learn.

Cameron finished her cycle of the block and returned though the side door. She decided at this time to indulge in one of her simple pleasures and kicked off her knee-high riding boots, leaving them by the door while she took off her socks. She then stuffed the socks into the boots for later retrieval and use. Barefoot, she padded her way through the kitchen and into the study where the family computer resided. She awoke it from power save mode, logged on using her profile, and set about surfing the internet classifieds for places to apply. She immediately ruled out restaurants. Cameron did not want to be a waitress. She also discarded full time career jobs because they required a degree or experience that she did not have. She would be limited to part time work at a store within five miles of home, something that would not interrupt with her school schedule. After looking at a few places and applying, she came upon Zedd's Electronics on the corner of West Sunset and Hammond. They were a local retail and repair center for appliances and computers. They were currently seeking retail associates. She filled out the online application with her cover identity information. After she was done, she had spent two and a half hours patiently doing as Sarah suggested. It was now time for another patrol of the block.

X

John Connor awoke early the next morning with the dawn barely streaming in. For the past couple of months, rising early had come naturally to him. He stood up and did some quick stretches to loosen himself up. After pulling on a pair of running shorts and his cross-country shoes, he grabbed his iPod and headed downstairs. Cameron was nowhere to be found, not that he was looking for her anyway. She might ask if she could join him for his morning run, which he would decline. First, he didn't need to have a running partner that could more than keep up with him and make running feel futile. Second, running was his time to be alone. Cameron had to give him _some_ personal space, didn't she? Sometimes it felt as if she would sew herself onto his hip if she could. Or something even crazier, if that could be believed. Last week in his science class, they had been studying the case of David Vetter, the bubble boy, who had lived all 12 years of his life inside a sterile environment. And all John could think of was that Cameron would probably do something like that if she could. That would be him, living his life inside a plastic hamster cage. Sure, he liked the machine. She could be okay company. Teaching her stuff was fun. And yes, she was very pretty. John just didn't want to be around her _all the time_ like she apparently demanded. Sometimes, he just needed to step away and gain some perspective. Why fight if he didn't know what he was fighting for? Why should he care about things he never got to experience. Locking him away from human contact would make him as cold as the machines. And that was something he very dearly wanted to avoid. John was aware, as he jogged along the sidewalk around the neighborhood, that even though he had the illusion of being alone, he actually wasn't. He was more that certain that Cameron had detected his departure from the house and had managed to stealthily place herself at various strategic locations along his route, which never varied. He maintained it for her benefit, not that he told her this, just as he knew she was always nearby while he was running. But he was content to maintain the illusion that he was just John Connor, not the goddamn president.

He was not sure what to make of Scottie. Rather, he wasn't sure what to make of her presence. She had brought the news that the Virginia mission had not totally succeeded. Yet at least the news was good. The war would last just over a decade in the timeline she came from. It surprised him that he was not terribly disappointed that the war was going to happen. They had hurt Skynet. They were obviously doing something right. And for the evil computer to not know the name of the man who defeated it? That was just awesome. How was it that this had never happened before? How was it that he was so important to the war effort and yet so well known by the enemy? Well, no more. Skynet didn't even know who it was facing. It would fight and die in ignorance. It would never hunt him. How cool was that? Of course he was under no delusions that he was out of danger. Other machines from other timelines were still out there and might still know who he was. He could not deny that the T-888 that they had encountered while escaping Oceana had known him and was trying to kill him. It was a minor miracle that they had managed to escape it, and that it had not just shown up one day at their door to kill him. They were lucky. Maybe it had been thrown off. Maybe the fire had actually destroyed it, though he didn't find that likely. Turpentine wasn't thermite. Mom hadn't told him as much herself, but he was very well aware that she had been trying to exclude him from her fight with Kaliba. While they had thought they had eliminated Skynet, Sarah had been pursuing Kaliba with a quiet vengeance. They had kidnapped her. They had threatened her and her family. They were wrapped up in the stink of Skynet. They needed to be destroyed. But while she was hunting them she had forgotten, perhaps even on purpose, that John might also be looking to get his own shots in. After all, they had messed with his mother, and no one messed with his mom and lived to brag about it. Margos Sarkissian had done so, and it had been to his peril. John had spent a long time feeling guilty for the need to kill the man, but in the end he figured that Sarkissian would have killed them after he got what he needed. He had been willing to blow up Cameron, and that meant that he would likely not have left the house with John and Sarah alive. Thus was an example of the way his mother operated. She was more like a sledgehammer than a stiletto, and John was willing to aid her, if for no other reason just to make sure she didn't get herself killed smashing through everything. Scottie added a whole new level of complication. Killing Kaliba was her mission, and since Kaliba was connected with Skynet, it was John's mission to kill the rogue corporation too. The issue there was that unlike Cyberdyne, Kaliba was dug in pretty tight. They were a public company with a lot of popular consumer products. What they did in the shadows was what concerned the Connors, and because of how Kaliba operated, that was all the harder to do.

John made his last turn and jogged back up the driveway. Halfway up he slowed his pace, walking off his last few minutes to cool himself. As he came up to the porch he saw Cameron sitting on the porch swing, idly kicking her legs while she stared off into the distance. He noticed that her feet were bare, and the soles were dirty. She had obviously followed him as he suspected. But he appreciated her giving him the illusion of being alone for a while. She acknowledged him with a neutral glance, a quick scan to make sure he was okay, before returning her gaze to the distance. They exchanged no other greeting. Ever since Cameron had repaired her program, she had been mechanically distant even from him. She could still be pleasant enough when required, and her disappointment over that stupid sweater was almost as endearing as it was infuriating, but for the most part she was stoic. John couldn't help but feel like it was his own fault. When she had suddenly been saddled with full-on human emotions far beyond what she was used to or prepared for, he had failed to appreciate it or be supportive. In the end, she had found the feelings a burden and simply programmed them out of herself. Or at least she had tried. He could tell that there was still something going on in there, something that she was willingly hiding. But, John recognized, he was not a machine. He had no clue how her brain worked. But the fact remained that she was a great deal more difficult to read than ever before.

He allowed his eyes to linger on her perhaps a little longer, and he wondered if she was aware of it. He didn't stay around to find out. Instead, he went inside and upstairs. He was sweaty and was sure he smelled terrible. As soon as he hit the top of the stairs, he began pulling his shirt off. The tee was damp with his sweat, and even pulling it over his head stung his eyes. As he entered his room, he tossed it aside. The hamper could wait. He needed a shower now. He reached for the door to the bathroom he shared with Cameron and flung it open.

"Whoops," Scottie chortled as she snatched for a towel to cover herself, fumbling miserably to throw it around her body. She hadn't bothered to turn around to spare her modesty, however. John got an eyeful, and noticed that she had done some maintenance. He also got the feeling that she really didn't care that much what he saw. "Sorry. Cameron said I could use the bathroom. Figured since you'd gone for a donder that I'd get in here and wash up. Ten years without a proper bath, I was pure dead manky."

"No, yeah, fine," John sputtered, averting his gaze. Instantly he kicked himself for doing so. Scottie was not his first naked girl, not by a long shot. "Just normally we lock the door around here."

"Awrite," the redhead nodded, "say, though, can you give me an opinion on something?"

"Huh?"

"You peeked my legs and fanny. Did I get the shave job right? I heard that's what girls did nowdays."

John was confused… and… _really _embarrassed. He could feel it in the hot prickles on his neck. "Um, I don't know. I didn't think girls needed to shave, y'know, back there."

Scottie laughed. "Dinnae mean my arse. In Scotland a fanny's on the other side."

"Oh," John considered with a furrowed brow, hoping he wasn't turning red. How the hell did he get involved in this conversation? Could he please get out of it... like _now_? "I guess it was fine. I… um… I didn't look too hard at it. It's just kind of a style right now. Not everyone does it, I guess." Every girl that he had seen naked… two and one cyborg… had been smooth… Jesus, he _really_ didn't want to be thinking about this…

The young woman shrugged, and John was worried she might ask him to take a closer look. God, this was awkward as hell! "Nice to know. Guess I'll have to see if I like it then. Kinda nice not having prickly legs, though. Anyway, I'll leave you to it." She whirled and walked into Cameron's room, pulling the door closed on her way out. Well, thank goodness for small favors. John gave himself a glance in the mirror. It had been a few days since he had shaved. He could probably strike a match on his chin. John liked to shave before he showered so that he could wash the remaining foam and debris whiskers from his face as he bathed. He lathered up his chin, cheeks, and neck, and ran the razor under some hot water. As he started making the first swipe down his face, Scottie poked her head back in. "Hope you don't mind," she said, "I used your razor." She disappeared again, and all John could do was hold the razor away from his face, staring at it as if it were fresh out of the backside of a dog. Yes, he could see them, a few long, wiry red hairs remained.

Well…

X

Scottie retreated back into Cameron's room and threw on the clothes that she was borrowing from the machine. Sarah had promised to take her to get some things of her own to wear. As she dressed, she thought back to what had just happened in the bathroom. Being forced to time travel in the nude didn't bother her. But being immodestly crass did. In spite of the events in her life, she had been raised better. John Connor was a teenaged kid who had obviously been made uncomfortable with her exhibition, and that's exactly what she needed from him. Yes, she could have locked the bloody thing, but maybe from now on he wouldn't just go barging through a door without being alert as to what was on the other side. And maybe he wouldn't be terribly curious about her. She didn't need him getting close to her. When she had seen the pinking tint of his face, she knew she could make a play to keep him distant by being crude and forward. She might be working with him, so she did not need any of them figuring her out just yet.

This assignment was something she would have to be very careful with. She had to completely set aside the real her if she were to ever to get them to trust her. She had to play this annoyingly, even insultingly, stereotypical persona. She couldn't even use her real name just yet, not without compromising her position. She brushed through her long flame-colored hair with a hand and looked herself over in the mirror. Locking eyes with her reflection, she took a deep breath. "Okay, you can do this," she said, her voice completely lacking the Scottish accent.

X

The door chime tinkled as Cameron walked into the store. She threw one last glance outside to the parking lot where John sat waiting in his truck. She had warned him that this might take a while. In her hand, she held a printed application and cover letter. She was dressed as well as possible with her limited wardrobe; a casual black skirt and cream blouse, with nude hose and black kitten pumps. She had put her hair up and even applied some more overt make-up. Cameron preferred her features naturally but the black mascara and touch of smoky eye liner added a professional touch to her appearance. She found it likely that she looked as if she meant business. This may be a part time job, but the pay and job requirements were optimal. She could flex her skills here.

A pan of the store showed just what she expected, a medium-sized appliance shop that sold almost every type of electronic gadget available. The square footage, at an estimate, was in the six-thousand range. The lighting was bright, with a slight blue tint. Chrome trim and Plexiglas gave a high-tech look. From every corner there came the constant pulse of sound; the bass thump of high-end stereos, the tenor of a surround-sound television system, the explosive pop and roar of video game demos. All of this served to both advertise the location of the wares as well as drown out the background music, which Cameron realized as some variety of pop music from the early nineties. The employees all wore company polo shirts. Cameron surmised by the ratio of red ones to yellow ones that yellow ones were for department heads and red ones were for associates. The store was pretty busy, and that was good. That meant that she might actually get some decent hours.

"Can I help you?" This from a male employee in a yellow shirt.

Cameron put on her best smile. To succeed here, she was going to have to use every ounce of her not insignificant infiltration abilities. She had not made real and prolonged use of them since she had first met John at Crest View so long ago. "Yes, hello," she said, putting to use one of the protean actions she was programmed with by lightly touching a strand of hair she had left loose for just such a purpose, "I put in an application online and I was hoping to see a manager."

His eyes opened wide, "oh, yeah. Sure. Let me get him." He jogged off to find his superior. A few minutes later, a man in his early forties approached. His shirt was blue with a black collar, and his face bore signs of stress. He was obviously someone who worked more than was probably healthy.

"Hi," the man said as he offered his hand, "I'm Jeff Thurston, the franchise manager."

Cameron took his hand and shook lightly, as a female of her apparent age might. "Cameron Baum." The female machine well understood the need to maintain her cover identity at all times. She much preferred the family name Phillips as there was a certain aesthetic flow to it. But Cameron Emily Baum was what was on her current driver's license, so she was saddled with it. "I put in my application online, but I figured it would be pretty useful to come into the store." She handed him her papers.

Thurston took them, but he was obviously taken aback by her forwardness. "Um, yeah, sure. Seeing people in person is always great," he began reading, "you can't get a good feel of someone just by looking at words on a computer screen." He paused for a moment, then asked "do you have time for an interview? Just really quick?"

Cameron selected a shrug as an appropriate gesture. "Sure. I have all day."

"Great," Jeff smiled, "c'mon. We'll go to my office." He led her on. They went to the back of the store, through a pair of heavy double doors and into a storage area. His office was small, and papers were tacked all over the walls. He offered her a seat, which she took. He also sat down, grabbing a red pen from a cup on the desk. "So, this is your first job?"

"Yes, this will be my first," Cameron confirmed.

"Okay," and he took some notes, "why here?"

Cameron tilted her head and offered a smile, rolling her eyes to look up at the ceiling in a way that would be considered enthusiastic and mildly flirtatious. She made sure her tone had just enough gush in it. "I have always loved electronics. My brother and I are both big into computers and programming, so I know my way around the hardware. And I know Zedd's also sells kitchen appliances. I'm a pretty avid cook and I've used a lot of the brands you sell. I figure I will need the least amount of training at a place like this. Plus, I'm looking for work experience in a place that I will be valuable, and I really think this is it.""

"That's really awesome," Jeff said, making more notes. "So you cook and you work on computer systems. What else do you do?"

"I dance," Cameron replied, "Ballet." She flared her eyes in a surprise, as if discovering something new. It would be an effective gesture as she told this fib. "Oh, yeah, I'm really familiar with stereo equipment, too. I run the sound sometimes at my ballet school, so y'know… I kinda got that."

"Wow, yeah," Jeff nodded, "that's all really useful. You're in highschool?"

"Yes."

"What is your availability like?"

"Nights and weekends. Whenever you need me I can be here."

"Good. Now, we normally start associates at nine and hour and fifteen hours a week. But normally after a month or so, you get bumped up to twenty. Right now especially we are looking to fill space because the holidays are coming up. Our best employees will of course stay on after the first of the year." He paused to write some notes on her application. "I have to admit, I really appreciate that you came in to ask after the position instead of just applying online and not following up. A lot of the kids your age, no offense, they just apply and wait on us. I like your persistence and your initiative." He glanced up at her, "if I asked you to start tomorrow, could you?"

"Yes," Cameron replied, "after school."

Jeff smiled at her, "good. Now, I do have a few more questions for you."

"Okay."

X

"So," John asked as Cameron got in. He was looking at her expectantly, and she realized that he hadn't been terribly expressive around her of late. This was likely her own fault. Her efforts at distancing herself from her emotional side were bearing fruit that turned out to be sour.

She offered him a sideways glance and a spectral upward turn of her lip, "he's going to hire me."

"Alright!" John cheered. He held up a hand for a high five, and though Cameron was tempted to give him one, she only returned to her robotic mask and set her eyes out the windshield. Leaving him hanging it was called. After an awkward silence, John reminded himself that terminators didn't slap fives. He cleared his throat, lowered his hand back onto the steering wheel, and put the Dakota in gear. "That's good," he said more calmly, though out of the corner of her eye, Cameron could see some irritation conceal itself in the furrows of his brow.

"Yes," she agreed, "that's good."

X

Derek Reese never knew what to expect anymore when he drove up to the house the Connors occupied, and that was why he had moved out. Too many weird things were going on. Sarah was being nice to the machine. John and the machine were acting like siblings with all the positives and negatives implied. Sarah was laughing more, talking more. John was not brooding. The metal… well, she was still there. And the weirdest thing, the thing that Derek found that he was not ready to accept or abide, was that he, the hardened future resistance soldier, the man who had grown up fighting the machines, was starting to actually care a little bit about her. It wasn't a "gosh, I sure do love the dog" feeling, but he found that he was unable to maintain his hatred, or dislike, or even annoyance. He had spent too much time around her. She was too open, too honest, too dedicated to his nephew. Those were characteristics that he was starting to admire. What happened to her was starting to matter to him. And while he would never be able to call her a friend, at least he hoped he would not ever be able to shake this newfound trust and respect of her that he had developed. So a month ago, before it had gone any further, he had just said "fuck it" and moved out to an apartment just up the street. The excuse he had given was that he was tired of sleeping on a couch. That wasn't a real complaint. The couch was some of the best sleeping he had ever had, and it sure beat the hell out of the flea-ridden cot he'd slept on in the future. And it wasn't even that he resented this development between himself and the machine. He just knew that he couldn't afford to go softer on them. If he started to think of Cameron like a person, then he might start giving that consideration to the rest of them, and that could only lead to disaster.

Though he was now separated from them by a short stretch of geography, he still did everything he could to support his nephew and his… was Sarah his sister-in-law? He wasn't sure how to define her. But anyway, he had just gotten back from a road trip to check out an alleged Kaliba sight in Arizona. Whatever was there was gone. The place had been burnt to the ground to cover it. While Derek was disappointed to find the trip had been made for nothing, he found some comfort that Kaliba was being inconvenienced.

As he pulled into the driveway of the Connor home and his truck rumbled over the gravel, he saw that Sarah's car was the only one parked outside. So, she was home alone. That's good. He wouldn't have to deal with the boy and his robot. He parked the big black Dodge Ram next to the silver luxury car and walked up the steps to the door. He still had a key, so he let himself in. Sarah probably wouldn't shoot him. A machine would kick a door open. He was at least using keys.

He walked into the house and was immediately confronted with just the kind of consistency that could be found in this place; weirdness. Sarah was standing on top of a chair in the corner of the living room, panning her gaze about. In her hand she held a ruler and a pencil. Derek wasn't sure what to make of this, but she had seen him and said nothing. His and Sarah's relationship had never warmed beyond their first meeting. They were not friends. She did not treat him like family. They were more like partners, except that she ran the show. Sarah was General Connor right now, at least until her boy decided to grow up and do it consistently. Sarah wasn't as good as her son would be in the future. She was too hard, too uncaring, and didn't know when to let go. But at least she was willing to fight right now and not wait for someone else to save her. Still, what she was doing now just drove home to Derek that he was just not able to live here and keep himself sane. To dispel the awkward silence, he made a joke. "Mouse that scary?"

Sarah shook her head and smirked at him. "Cameras." The raven-haired woman stepped down and picked the chair up. "We need more security. I'm trying to find the best sightline."

Derek couldn't help but being drawn in to the project. "That's a fairly obvious place to put one."

"I'm going to conceal it," she pointed up, "I'm going to move that smoke detector over there. I'll hide a minicam inside."

Derek looked at the detector. "How big is the camera."

Sarah shrugged, "dunno. I don't have them yet. But I want to have the doors covered."

"You might think about getting a couple for the outside to cover the perimeter. If they get in, it's already too late."

"I know. But if they get past the security system, we'll have a good look at their faces." Sarah pushed the chair underneath the secretary desk by the stairs. "We'll be able to find them." She turned to face Derek, and he recognized the veneer of business that was now on her face. "So, Arizona."

"Arizona," Derek confirmed as he scratched the back of his neck. He had already told her everything there was to tell over the phone, but he was here now. He might as well tell it again. "Whatever it was, it was burnt to the ground. They made sure that whatever they had was gone with no evidence. It was out in the desert on a dirt road. If we didn't have the GPS coordinates from those papers we got at the water facility, we'd have never found it."

Sarah crossed her arms over her chest and leaned against the couch. "Damn. If they're moving their assets, then that means they know they've been compromised."

"Ya think," Derek smirked, "We wrecked a warehouse, stole six hard drives and a safe full of papers and cash, and took down a machine. They know what they are dealing with."

"Not exactly," Sarah said, "and that's why I called you over." She let out a long breath. "They're building Skynet, Kaliba is. They might not know it, but they're working on it."

"Sarah, we took care of Wiley. Skynet will never be needed. Without NORAD's interest, Skynet is just a really smart laptop. You can't just hack into a nuclear arsenal and go Armageddon for kicks."

"I would agree with you, but for a couple of things." She reached down and grabbed a rolled-up newspaper on the secretary. Derek took it when she offered, and he unrolled it. The front page headline shocked him. _US Air Force to consider AI defense platform_. He read a little of the article, noticing Kaliba's name attached to the project. It was apparently to get underway at the beginning of the year based on programs already under development.

"That's disturbingly coincidental," Derek said wryly.

Sarah nodded, "yep. Then I got on my computer and looked for more. Apparently Senator Blakemann, the head of the armed services committee, was all for this program."

"Blakemann's dead. He died in a plane crash."

"Right," Sarah said, "a Kaliba-built plane. Apparently, Senators Wallace of California and Brooks of Oklahoma are also enthusiastically supportive. They also come from the states with the highest Kaliba presence."

"So you think that Blakemann was considering someone else to head this Air Force project, so Kaliba managed to kill him in favor of getting support from some guys they may or may not have in their pockets? Sarah, that's a big risk. The Sparrowhawk 60 has been grounded by the FAA to inspect the entire fleet. It's costing Kaliba millions of dollars every day. They might as well shoot themselves in the kneecap for no promised gain." Sarah did not give him an answer. She was just leaning against the sofa, her arms crossed, staring past him. Either she was thinking or she was ignoring him. It was hard to tell which. The problem with her was that once she had made up her mind, there was no convincing her that she was wrong. He remembered the debacle that had been the Dakara operation. Time and treasure had been wasted because Sarah was focused on the logo. Thank God she had satisfied herself of the meaning of those three damn dots. He did have one other question. "You said a couple of things. What's the other?" Sarah made no verbal reply, she simply inclined her head. It was then that Derek realized she was not staring into space. She was looking past him at someone. Derek turned around, looking at the landing of the stairs. There behind him stood a red-haired young woman.

"Derek Reese," Sarah said by way of introduction, "Scottie."

Derek was hardly gobsmacked, "hi."

"Hey there yourself." The Scottish accent was unmistakable. She had apparently been prepared to extend a hand, but while she had exercised restraint she was unable to hide the barcode on her right forearm. It was starting to sink in on Derek. So he pulled out the chair and took a seat in it.

"I'm guessing she's new,"

"And her sense of modesty is legendary," Sarah said sarcastically. That earned only an honest shrug from the young woman.

Scottie then focused her attention on Derek. "You were wondering if I told her Kaliba builds the Big Bastard?"

"You might say that," Derek replied with a nod.

Scottie skipped not a beat. "Kaliba builds the Big Bastard."

"Shit."

"Ain't it."

Sarah interjected. "The war is about half the length of the one you fought. By twenty twenty-five it's over," Sarah shrugged, "apparently there's a machine faction that's friendly to humans."

Derek rubbed his face and nodded. "Does Kaliba even know what they're into?"

"I don't have to remind you what we found at their water plant. Who was protecting it. How can you even ask that?"

"Who knows what the machines told them," Derek shrugged, "I had thought we were just in the clean-up phase."

"Me too," Sarah agreed. She picked up a binder from the small desk. "Let's talk targets." The three of them went into the kitchen and sat around the table. Sarah laid the folder down open and began shuffling through the papers. Some of them already had notes written on them adding information that the team had found out. Sarah occasionally found her eyes lingering on the addendums that Cameron had written, and noticed with only partial irritation her perfectly legible handwriting scrawled with effeminate and gracefully curvy letters. Looking at it, Sarah half expected the i's and j's to be dotted with hearts. There was a simple beauty to her writing style, and it was perfectly readable next to Sarah's hurried and slanted script or John's chicken scratch. Sometimes the machine's sheer perfection might be adorable if she weren't a terminator, and that made Sarah grunt with irritable disapproval as she returned to her task. "Here's an address in San Antonio from this shipping list. Asset transferrals from the Tulsa and Phoenix facilities."

"Specifics," Derek asked.

"No."

"Well, I don't think driving to San Antonio with no specifics is helpful. Whatever was at the Phoenix locale is gone now anyway."

"I know," Sarah agreed, "I'm trying to find something else in California. They pretty much cleared out of Los Angeles and the surrounding area. We're going to have to drive someplace to find out what they're doing." She flipped a few more pages, and pulled out a leaf. "What about Santa Clara?"

"What is it," Scottie inquired, holding her hand out for the sheet. Sarah passed it to her.

"Don't know. This one is a requisition for excavation equipment to be moved out to the San Felipe Hills. Hang on…" Sarah shuffled some more, "San Felipe is familiar. Here it is. This is a hard copy of an internal memo from a year ago about the sale of six acres in Santa Clara in the San Felipe area." She looked up at Derek Reese inquisitively.

Derek shrugged, "Hey, I don't know what it could be. So much has changed since I got here."

"Well," Sarah said as they heard the front door open, "I want you two to go up there and find out." John walked in and Cameron followed right behind him. She had apparently been delayed by taking off her shoes once she got into the house, which she carried in her hand. She dropped the kitten heels next to the kitchen door and took a spot in the corner leaning against the counter. Neither of them were betraying much emotion. "Well," Sarah asked expectantly, "how was it?"

"Cameron got the job," John said, "She starts tomorrow." Sarah surprised herself when she gave the machine an approving nod and smile. John did not linger on the subject. "What are you guys doing?"

Sarah turned over the sheet she was holding and folded her hands over it. "We're looking into a target."

"Aw, sweet," John exclaimed, He went to pull up a chair. "How can I help?"

"You can go do your homework," Sarah said, "we've got this."

"My homework is done. I did it last night. C'mon, let me help."

His mother shook her head, "no."

John's eyebrows knitted, "but mom… this is my fight, too."

"No it's not. It's mine. I don't want you involved. Go find something to do with yourself." He opened his mouth to protest, but she cut him off. "This is not up for discussion. Go upstairs. Now." The boy blew out an irate breath, but he saw that she was serious. He got up and opened the pantry, rifling violently through the various contents. After a moment, Sarah asked, "what are you looking for?"

John snapped, "I dunno. Something to snack on. Don't we have any chips or anything?"

"I'm not going to buy junk food right now. We still have that huge bowl full of Halloween candy left over because you were so sure we'd have trick-or-treaters."

"Yeah, and all you bought were Twizzlers. Those things are gross."

"_I_ like them."

"Right," John gestured, "_you_ like them. To me they taste like they were made with window caulk and earwig honey. Forget it. I'll be upstairs." And he stomped off.

After he left, Cameron went over to the candy bowl on the counter and picked out one of the strawberry licorice sticks. She unwrapped it and took a bite. As she chewed, her expression evolved from curious to vexed. Her eyes searched the floor for a second. She stopped chewing, her brow furrowed, and she looked at Sarah with a question on her face. Apparently the machine agreed with John's assessment. Sarah, completely unfazed by Cameron's show of disgust, grumbled and pointed to the sink. "Fine. Spit it in there." Cameron dutifully followed the directions, coughing up the chunks of Twizzler with what may have been an exaggeratedly violent gag. Sarah was about to be unbothered by the whole display until Cameron dropped the half-wrapped stick on the kitchen floor as she departed.

Derek watched her walk away, then looked back as Sarah and shrugged. "See, this is why I don't come here anymore. Too much weird shit goes on in this house."

X

After the meeting adjourned, Derek left and Scottie retreated to Cameron's room to pack her things while the machine prepared to patrol the block. Sarah decided it might be a good idea to have a talk with her son. She made her way upstairs to his room, sorting through her words as she trudged up the steps. Sarah was not normally one for serious rumination on what was to be said, but for some reason the way to explain this to him took a little longer to put together than usual.

As she hovered outside his door, Cameron came out of her own room and padded for the stairs. Passing Sarah the terminator hoisted her chosen weapon for the night, an AR-15, so that she could pass in the narrow hall. Sarah noticed that the usual stomp of the machine's footfalls were absent, and so she looked down. Cameron's feet were bare, and she had apparently painted her toenails. They were pink with red tulips and green stems drawn on the big toes. This made Sarah smirk, but she was just as happy not to ask. She might not like the answer, but if Cameron decided that she wanted to have cute toes, fine. Whatever. But Sarah did have one admonishment to make. "Put some shoes on before you go outside."

" 'Kay," Cameron replied as she walked past, obviously not intending to follow the advice. Sarah, for her part, wondered at why she had even tried to counsel the terminator. It was not as if Cameron could damage her feet if she went without shoes. A piece of glass in her sole or a stubbed toe would mean nothing to her. Whatever else existed in that metal head of hers, pain was either something she did not feel or did not register. Sarah, though, was not totally convinced or terribly concerned by it. If Cameron felt the need to keep hiding whatever was going on with her, Sarah would not intrude unless she felt it was dangerous. And Sarah found it to be more funny than frightening.

After Cameron disappeared down the stairs, she knocked on John's door. This was not asking permission to come in. This was done as a simple courtesy. She was the mother of a teenage son, so she did not need the potential disaster that might occur if she just barged in. The knock told John that he had to the count of ten to not be naked or tell her to give him some time before the door opened and she came in. He was her son. This was her house. His privacy was at her convenience.

After adequate time, she opened the door and stepped in. John was sitting at his desk, multitasking. He was typing on his laptop, reading from a calculus textbook, and wore the earphones of his iPod. When he saw her, he took off his earphones and paused the song he was listening too. At least he was not copping an attitude. Yet.

"Hey," he greeted.

"Hey," she said back, "we need to talk."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah," she sat down on his bed, "Look, I know that you were hoping we had stopped the war." John's only reply was a shrug. Sarah continued, "I'm sorry. I would love nothing more than for this to be all over."

"Mom, it's really okay," John said, and there was a tiny upward turn of his lips. "We were all just being hopelessly optimistic anyway. I'm not surprised. I mean, the first time around, the guy who created Skynet was killed and it still happened. We just have to keep working on this until we get it right. That's all."

Sarah gave him a disbelieving smirk, "you can't really be okay with this."

John nodded, "actually, I am. I just, y'know, wish you'd let me do something."

"Do you remember what happened the last time I let you come with us," Sarah reminded, "We almost got ourselves killed."

"Yeah, but we didn't. And if I don't get more experience, then I'm going to get killed in when J-Day finally happens…"

"No, John," Sarah turned stern, "No. You listen to me. Kaliba is dangerous. More dangerous than we've ever known. It isn't like it used to be, some hapless idiots accidentally creating Skynet. These people know what they're doing. They're working for it on purpose and they are willing to kill us to make sure they succeed. They don't know anything about you. No one knows who you are, but if they find out that you are the leader responsible for Skynet's destruction, they will hunt us down just for you. And we'll be on the run again instead of being able to fight in anonymity. I don't want that and I don't want them to know your name."

"Mom…"

"No! I'm not going to lose what we've won so far just so that you can feed your need for adventure. Make friends, date girls, go to parties, but there is no way in hell you are getting involved in this fight with Kaliba. Just… and I can't believe I'm saying this, be normal for a while, okay? Is that too much to ask?"

John was stuck now. He knew what he was intended to do, what he was born to do. And he was starting to show signs of being good at it. But at the same time, he had always wanted to be normal. This was as close as he was ever going to get. And at the same time, now that it was in front of him to be had, it didn't appear that appealing. He certainly didn't want his mother to be doing it without him. "What am I supposed to do? Go out and enjoy my life while you and Cameron and Derek fight the war I was _born_ to fight? That's really lame."

"Be that as it may," Sarah said, "the decision stands."

"But…"

"The decision stands," John's mother repeated. After a hard glare to let him know she was serious, she turned and left the room without further discussion, closing the door behind her.


	3. It's a Mess, it's a Start

**Chapter 3: It's a Mess. It's a Start.**

"Are you sure you'll be okay?" John asked as he and Cameron sat in his truck in the parking lot of Zedd's. The cyborg was staring out the window at the store entrance. She was wearing a pair of black slacks required for the uniform, but had not yet gotten a shirt, so she was just wearing a simple tee. Cameron also did not possess any sneakers of appropriate color, so she had tugged on her black harness boots, which she must have recently polished. John could practically see his reflection in them and the steel harness ring shone like silver.

"I'll be fine," Cameron replied, probably for the hundredth time. She did not give the answer in a reassuring tone, only delivering the words as cold fact.

"Okay," John said, "now just smile a lot, be friendly…"

"Don't be a freak," the machine interjected, and the tenor was such that John could not tell if she were telling him or adding to his list.

The boy's brow furrowed for a second, but he decided to just take it as an addendum. "Yeah, don't be a freak."

"Have you ever had a job?" The question was unexpected.

"Uh, yeah," John nodded, "I was a paperboy for a while. I would ride around the neighborhood on my dirt bike and deliver newspapers. I kinda sucked at it." Cameron turned to give him a look, a quick glance that held nothing in it. A moment later, she stepped out of the car and began walking towards the door. Five paces onward, John called after her. "Good luck!" She turned and shot him one more look. He was smiling at her. She obliged him with one of her own and went inside.

Once inside, she found her new boss. Jeff Thurston was grinning as he saw her. "Hey, Cameron."

"Hey," she greeted; flared eyes, cheek-dimpling smile, slight tilt of the head, maybe adding a little sand to her voice. Nervously excited was what she was trying to convey, and it came pretty naturally to her because she felt it inside her. This was a totally new experience, a chance to learn and grow, something the infiltrator instincts would always yearn for. She kept one of her lips curled slightly as they talked.

"Wow, you're really punctual."

"Yeah," add awkward laugh, "I go to school right around the corner, so…"

"Well, great. Let's get you a uniform shirt and have you fill out your paperwork really quick. I'm going to have you shadowing today with Thea. I'll introduce you after we're done, okay."

"Sure," she said, then changed her expression, "I hope you don't mind. I don't have any black sneakers, so I wore these." She tugged up the legs of her slacks to show her boots. As an added excuse, she said "I dance ballet and have bad tendonitis in my ankles. Boots are more comfortable for me to wear."

Jeff gave them a quick look and gave a reassuring cat grin, "those will do fine. C'mon back to the office and we'll get you settled up."

Cameron filled out the paperwork, tax forms and employee contract, in a few short minutes. She was given two red polo shirts; one to wear now and one as a back-up. She was also given a lanyard with a badge at the bottom. Jeff told her that she would get a photo badge and cabinet key later. Cameron was then assigned a locker, in which she would place anything she brought with her, and she set its combination. Jeff then took her out on the floor to the computer section.

"Thea," he called to one of the associates there. A teenage girl approached and Jeff turned to introduce Cameron. "Thea Reardon, Cameron Baum. Thea, Cameron's going to be shadowing you for the next few days."

"Nice to meet you," Thea smiled and held out her hand, which Cameron took to shake. Thea Reardon was a tiny creature, standing perhaps fifty-seven inches tall. She had a slender, feminine shape and probably didn't weight a hundred pounds. Her alabaster skin contrasted with the dark brown hair that fell in layers across her shoulders. Her plain face was home to a nose that might be one size too large, and mounted on them were a pair of rectangular wireframe glasses. What was surprising was her eyes. Her left eye was sapphire blue while the right eye was mahogany brown. Cameron identified the anomaly as heterochromia and had to admit to herself that the effect was rather jarring.

Still, she remained pleasant, "hi," and was sure to add as genuine a smile as she could, which included crow's feet at her eyeline.

"I'll let you two get started," Jeff said and he wandered off.

The two girls, one natural and the other not, stood there and looked at each other for a moment. Cameron decided to break the ice first. Of her interaction options she chose "your eyes are really cool."

"Thanks," Thea said with a smirk, her voice a silvery scratch, "but sucking up will do you no good. Especially not when you're taller than me." The girl tried to keep a straight face, but devolved into chortles. Cameron joined her. Thea motioned, "c'mon. I'll get you familiar with the magical land of hope and wonder that we call the PC department." They began to tour, and Cameron began to discover that Thea had a joke or crack about everything. At seventeen, she had been working at Zedd's for two years, and so was more experienced than most of the staff. She knew her way around every department and was quick to give Cameron pointers. "I love computers," was one of her nuggets, "but printers are the devil. I have yet to meet a printer that I haven't wanted to destroy with a hatchet, so it better be good at doing things other than printing when the head wears out. So the printer/fax/scanner/copier/toaster/dishwasher/typewriter repair machine is definitely the way to go, so long as you don't mind if it doesn't toast, wash dishes, repair typewriters, or print worth a shit." Another as they cruised the isles of computer parts was "sometimes we get these guys in here who are hardcore PC gamers. If they say they are and ask you a question about whether to get the nVidia GTX 650 or the ATI Radeon 5770, they aren't. The gamer geeks spend way too much time on their favorite gaming forums learning about what they need before they even set foot in here. And whatever your opinions are, keep them to yourself. They tend to be brand loyal. Don't try to sell a Radeon guy on an nVidia product, he will just laugh at you and get what he wants. And he might even punch you in the face. If someone is shopping for a card, ask them what they already have."

"I don't want to be punched in the face," Cameron said, her expression one of mild concern.

"And I don't want you to get punched in the face," Thea said with mock seriousness, "which is why you do what I tell you." As they continued on, the conversation began to become more social than work related. Thea asked her "so, what else do you do, besides computer junk?"

Cameron considered, then replied, "I go to school…"

"Don't we all," Thea interjected with a giggle.

The cyborg came to the realization that Thea was asking about hobbies. "Ballet. I do ballet."

"Yeah? That's cool. I never could get the hang of dancing. Mom tried to get me into gymnastics when I was little…" she gestured to herself and added "er" with emphasis. It was a height joke. Cameron obliged her with a snort. "Anyway, it didn't take. I was on a constant sugar high without the sugar. About the only thing that interested me growing up was computers and because of its similarity to typing, the piano."

"That is so cool," Cameron said with perhaps too much enthusiasm, "I _love_ piano music. It's my favorite to dance to. Chopin, Tchaikovsky…"

Thea laughed, "I'm more of an Elton John/Billy Joel sort. And I play keyboard in my brother's band." She let out a sarcastic breath, curving her fingers into air quotes "band, I say. It's a garage band. He and one of his other computer geek friends are also music geeks and they put a band together. They… we… mainly play bars and clubs on weekend nights. Nothing original. Aerosmith, Guns N' Roses, Van Halen. My brother and Gordo, that's his friend, are really into eighties bands. They dig the whole post-disco rock thing."

Cameron recalled some facts and delivered them with a smile. "My brother has a friend who likes post-punk British rock groups. When he comes over they are constantly blasting the Smiths or the Cure or Echo & the Bunnymen…"

"Oh my God! Echo & the Bunnymen!" and Thea formed her fist into a microphone and sang "_lips like sugar! Sugar kisses!_" She laughed, "Oh, man, yes. Yes to Echo & the Bunnymen."

"Yes to Echo & the Bunnymen," Cameron agreed.

"It's seriously better than that whiney emo asshat tearfest bullshit that they play on the radio now. That's not rock. That's crying crocodile tears with your guitar because your mommy told you to take the trash out." Thea scoffed, " 'waaaaah. It's so hard being male and middle-class and white. Waaaaah.' God, you little bastard, give me a break. Try having a period." She shrugged, "I mean, the sound could be there, but Jesus. Y'know, when my parents were growing up, music was actually, like, _good_." She gave Cameron a glance, "say, you wanna take a tour of the audio department. Maybe get really, and by which I mean _really_, familiar with Panasonic stereos and Bose audiophones. And by the way, any other answer than 'hell yes' will not be acceptable."

Well, Cameron certainly didn't want to offend. "Hell yes," she said with a fist-pump. Thea led her on.

X

Thea took the Bose full-ear headphones as Cameron handed them back. The human girl had some obvious trouble reading the cybrog's expression. "I know, I know. AC/DC's a little hard on a first-timer. That opening chord of 'Thunderstruck' is a bitch to play, too. My brother tells me every time. Let's see who else we got here," and she began scrolling through her selections of her iPod, "oh, Pat Benatar?"

"My mom loves her," Cameron said as she recognized the name from among Sarah's favorites.

Thea shrugged, "familiar with Pat. You just earned some points, Cam."

"Oh, um, Cameron, please, if you don't mind."

Thea shrugged again, "sorry. I don't blame you. I like your name. Beats the hell out of mine."

"What's wrong with Thea?"

"Nothing 'cept that it's short for Theadora. My brother and I were named after my mother's grandparents. Theadora and Alvin."

"Alvin?"

"Yeah, but Al's cool with his name. You'll like him. He can be a total prima but he's a good brother."

Cameron grinned at that, "John's an okay brother. We haven't been getting along lately though."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. I don't know why."

"Hey, girlie, shit happens. He'll come around. Al and I always do no matter how bad the fight gets. Do you like Pink Floyd?" Cameron only replied by holding out her hand. Thea smiled and gave her the headphones. When they were seated on Cameron's head, Thea began playing "Another Brick in the Wall, part II." At first, the machine was a little mystified at the sound of the helicopter at the start of the track, but as the ominous beat and base line set in, Cameron began to enjoy the song. Cameron had learned from watching Thea that when one really enjoyed a song, it was common practice to grip the earcups, close the eyes, and sway the head in time with the music. Slowly, she allowed a smile to crawl across her face. Beyond the sound of Roger Waters' voice and the smooth edginess of the guitar solo, she heard Thea say "they should play this one for teachers more often."

Jeff Thurston strode up at that time, and Cameron pulled off the headphones to hear what he had to say. Thea's expression was of one caught with a hand in the cookie jar, and Cameron decided to mimic it, adding a bitten lip and an arched eyebrow. "Hey," he greeted, "everything going okay?"

"Yeah, boss," Thea nodded.

"Yeah, boss," parroted Cameron.

Thea explained, "I'm getting her familiar with the noise-canceling headphones."

"Okay," Jeff said, "I thought you were going to educate her on the computer equipment."

"I don't need no education," Cameron told him flatly before turning to Thea with a knowing look. The girl apparently found it funny, and chortled.

After recovering herself, Thea said, "yeah, boss, she knows the PC stuff better than I do. So I figured I'd give her a head start on the rest of the shop."

Jeff shrugged, "okay. Just be sure to show her everything."

"Will do," Thea assured, and the two of them watched him depart. The teenager looked at her cybernetic companion "good thing you're with me. Jeff gives me a lot of leeway, so I can get away with some goofing off on slow days. You ready to learn the register?"

"Sure."

"Cool. Let's go."

X

"So, Scottie," Derek said as the two of them rode along Interstate 5 through Valencia, "What's your story?"

The red-haired soldier set down the folder in her lap and looked up at the road. "Not much to tell."

Derek shrugged. He didn't know this kid from Adam and that was not something he particularly liked. Derek Reese had not much luck with strangers, and his streak with people from other timelines hadn't really been a positive thing either. For the past hour they had been quiet, and while the veteran Resistance officer had seen issue with silence on a car trip he normally reserved it for someone he knew… or the cyborg. And that brought up another reason why he was so interested in having a conversation with Scottie; he did not want to spend the next several hours stuck in the car thinking of the Connors and that machine and the issues with that home. He was hesistant to call them abnormal because… well, c'mon, the Connors and a machine. What about that could ever be normal? So he decided that Scottie was going to do her damndest to keep his mind off of it. "Try me."

"What is it you want to know?" Derek couldn't tell if she was annoyed or if it was just the accent playing tricks on him.

"Well, like what unit are you with?"

"Third of the One-two-seventh recon was my last unit. Before I transferred to the states, I was with Second Battalion, Ninety-second Regiment of Foot, Gordon's Highlanders." There was a certain level of pride in her voice when mentioning the Scottish unit. "Since you're going to ask, I specialized as a scout marksman. Light unit. We normally ran with BAE L125A3 COIL rifle with flexy scopes. We specialized in chip shots. A hole above the right eye and they donnae get back up."

"Yep," Derek agreed, "what's a COIL?"

"Chemical oxygen iodine laser," Scottie replied, giving him a funny look, as if he should have known. "IR chem laser. It operates at a wavelength of one-point-three-five micrometers, so even the tinnies cannae see it without specialized sensors. Not like those Westinghouse plasma ejectors you yanks used. And no recoil. We just dinnae have rate of fire, but when you are talking about steady, carefully aimed shooting it don't matter." She let the matter rest a moment, then asked "So, you're from when?"

"Twenty twenty-seven." Derek answered, "War's still going, though low intensity. We took the TDE in Topanga a few months before I left. Skynet was losing, it just didn't know it yet."

"God," Scottie shook her head, "war's been over a while now once I left," she shrugged, "Dinnae have anyone to leave behind, so I volunteered."

"My brother was sent on a mission twenty-five years before now. He was gone before I came. I didn't have anyone either. My parents were killed on J-Day."

"I still remember it," Scottie told him. "Y'know, I was born here, in Los Angeles. That's why they sent me. I knew this place about as well as you might expect from someone who hadnae seen it since I was a weeun. My da died when I was real young, I think four or five. Mom… I mean damn, y'know what do yer say to that? Threw herself at her work for a long time. She tried to see to me best she could, but she was distant, cold, most the time after da went. She sent me to live with da's brother in Glesga when I's eight or so. I ain't seen her since." She bit her lip and turned to look out the window for a while. She could at least tell most of the truth here. "J-Day happened, we were down in Sheffield, England. My uncle's sister-in-law married a professor that taught at Sheffield Hallam University. We were down visiting them. The first we know of an attack a Russian retaliatory nuke air bursts over the North Sea. We get the flash and all the electricity stops. A lot of the Russian weapons were still pointed at Cold War targets so Robin Hood Airport, which used to be RAF Finningley, gets one. That's only thirty-odd clicks East of the city. Windows of the house blow in. My aunt is flash blinded in her left eye. They kept a small aviary. My cousin Wallace, he was about six at this point, stumbles out into the aviary while everyone's still dazed. Next one hits right between Sheffield, Brinsworth, and Tinsley. I felt the heat from that fucker, dead certain. Roof blows off though the house don't come down. I can see a spot of flame through the door to the aviary. Wallace was flash-fried and it was his body burning. Nothing left. He's ash. Aunt gets burnt on her back. I was already on the floor. It was a miracle the rest of us weren't killed." She took a deep breath. "I was fine. My uncle was okay, but my aunt had burns all over her back and face. We spent a few hours trying to treat her at home, but she was hurting too badly. We cannae start the car or call a doctor because nothing that wasnae hardened against EMP would work. The firestorm burned itself out mostly by the next day. So we walked her to the local hospital, my uncle and his brother-in-law carrying her on a door."

There was a pause as she was obviously fighting the surfacing of the memories, but a leak had already been sprung in her shell and it was going to come trickling out of her. "Walking through the city… y'know it wasnae totally flattened. Mostly the industrial areas hit. I did see some strange shadows on the sidewalk. They were all that was left of people who had been outside when the nuke hit nearby. Y'know, they were probably the lucky ones. Gamma ray pulses from nuclear detonations travel so fast, if you're near ground zero, close enough to be vaporized, you get turned to ash faster than your nervous system can transmit the information to your brain. You literally die before you even feel it. Lucky them. All's left is a flash shadow on the ground. There were people staggering around. Some buildings still standing damaged. I remember a woman standing atop the rubble of her home, holding an infant in her arms. She was swaying back and forth, talking to her husband, who was nowhere to be found. The baby in her arms was burned black. Dead. The pattern of her blouse had been burned into her skin.

"We got to the hospital after walking for two hours. The crowd around the hospital was massive. Everyone was just standing in a line to be seen. The floor was slicked and dripping with blood. There wasnae any medicine and the surviving supply of alcohol had been used up in less than a day. Surgeons were having to take off broken limbs with no anesthetic. They were ripping up sheets for bandages. I was too frightened to stay. I ran out and not knowing the city I got lost. Wandered for a few days, finally found my way back home. Found out that my aunt died. After that, we just tried to survive for a few weeks. I remember the first time I found black sand in my food. I was told not to eat it. Radioactive dust particles settling down from the atmosphere. A few weeks after the Day, the government began to pull itself together and organize. Money meant nothing. Food became currency. They paid people in rations to work clearing the rubble. You received six hundred calories a day as a base, and then you got another hundred for every hour of work you did. People who didn't work starved to death. You tried to share with someone else, you both starved. There were food riots. The agitators were shot. Everyone that died meant a marginal increase in food for the rest of us. I worked hard as anyone else pulling carts of broken brick ten hours a day every day for two bowls of gruel and a bottle of smoky water.

"Closer to autumn, my uncle hears a rumor that a farm outside of town needs help harvesting corn," there was a cynical chuckle, "corn. The whole field was turning brown. The stalks were blown over. The entire northern hemisphere had a hole blasted in the ozone layer that was just killing the crops. The harvest was pathetic. But anyway, we left the city in spite of it being against the law. On the way there, we ran out of our small stockpile of food and hadda make do with two-week-old ewe's carcass. Honkin' pure fierce but it was better than starving. When we got to the farm, I spent the next month tossing withered ears of corn into a trash bag to be processed. Local police had taken over. Anyone caught pinching the corn on the side was dragged into the field and killed. I like to think they were buried, but they probably found their way into the stew or the dogs' bowls. We ate better than in the city, though. Farm workers got first dibs on produce. The government tried to keep order, but you can only keep so much order from desperate people. We got tired of being executed for trying to survive a little better. Christ, we were down to using steam tractors to plow fields, when they worked. When they dinnae, we had to hoe the bloody thing, stand out in the sun all day wrapped head to toe. My uncle had cataracts from the sunlight by time he turned forty-five. We were all tired of having nothing and living on nothing. Society just kinda fell apart two or three years after J-Day. It wasn't too long after that the machines came. The war began in earnest then. Resistance soldiers got food and beds and respect. I dinnae want to have to sell my body, turning tricks for some rat-catcher for a couple of putrid rats to eat. So I joined up."

Derek shrugged, "sounds like you got pretty lucky. I know a lot of girls who were your age when the war started. Before they joined up they had to trade sex for food. One woman I know started doing it at eleven."

Scottie shook her head, "Yeah, I did too. Not me, though. You dinnae wanna do that unless you were pure desperate and I never was. Shit, I'm still a virgin. No birth control, you were bound to get pregnant sooner or later, then you'd just have another mouth to feed. That wasnae gonna happen to me."

"Now that _is_ surprising. How old are you?"

"Twenty-four."

"And you managed this long?"

"Like I said," Scottie reminded him, "I dinnae want to have a baby."

"I saw your mark," Derek said, "when did they get you?"

Scottie ran a finger across the barcode on her arm "I was seventeen. They caught me on a scouting mission, named me, and tried to find out where I came from." She got silent and looked out the window. Derek immediately recognized the emotion she was feeling. He had felt it himself. It was a measure of shame mixed with terror and guilt. He knew it well. It was an incredibly lonely feeling.

"The worst thing about being interrogated by the machines," Derek said, "is that they don't even have to lay a finger on you. They don't leave a mark. They can pull it out of you one way or the other. They're so gentle about it and yet in the end you are just exhausted. They aren't like men, who have to beat it out of you. They can grind it out in their own way. Anyone would break. My whole squad did." Scottie turned her head at that, surprise written openly on her face. She stared at him for a few seconds, then returned her eyes to the road.

"They ain't so bad," Scottie admitted after a moment, "not once you realize that in the end, they're the same as us. They're just trying to win the war and survive. Once I woke up to that, it was hard to hate them. Kept fighting like a devil, but I dinnae hate them anymore."

Derek shook his head. "I never got that far. The reprogrammed ones that we had went bad sometimes, killed people. We never figured out why. They're not like us. You can't reason them into being on our side. They had to be captured, have their chips torn out, and their programming wiped. They have nothing in common with a man."

"They do," Scottie argued, "the most common ground we have is that we want to live, and in the end so do they. We both want to live. Once you start there, finding more ain't hard."

X

Fuck Tuesdays. They were the devil. Mondays got a lot of angst. Monday was blamed as the murderer of the weekend, the beginning of five days of suffering, and all of that other awful jazz that people have been saying since Monday became a thing. Monday, no one trusted it. But what no one realized was that the smear campaign was being run from the shadows by the real villain of the weekday show. That villain was named Tuesday. See, Monday might be the first day that comes in the week, but Tuesday was the one that followed. Monday was just the first day of the week. Tuesday meant that you were committed to it. The week was happening, and only more days followed. Fact: Mondays were more frequently holidays than Tuesdays. Mondays occasionally gave you an easy one. Tuesdays were the mean little bitches that made you work every time.

This was the mood John was in as he slumped into his chair at the lunch table on the school's patio and tossed his backpack aside. He didn't know what was the cause of his bad mood. He also wasn't sure if he was having a new bad mood or if this one was an extension of the old one. Or what might have even caused this sour sort he was in. What he wanted to have right now was a half-hour with his friends to worry about nothing in particular. Easier said than done with Cameron following right behind him. At least this year they didn't have all of the same classes. He didn't have to spend every single second with her. He wasn't sure why that made him happy, or why just being around her was pissing him off lately. Or why anything about the cyborg at all. It was weird. He actually did want to be around her, but doing so just made him mad. He couldn't figure it out, so screw it.

"Hey," Morris greeted as he looked up from his lunch tray. The food on it looked good, probably better than what John was going to find inside the brown bag he carried.

"Hey," John said, smiling.

"Hey," Cameron added as she too found a seat.

"Ready for the trig test," Morris asked. John and Cameron both shrugged. "I'm ready for the trig test. So, what's new with you guys?"

"I started my job yesterday."

"Yeah?"

"I made a new friend."

John smirked at her as he unpacked his lunch, "a real friend, right. She didn't call you a bitch-whore or something did she?"

"No. She taught me about the store. We listened to music together. Her name is Thea."

The two teenage boys grinned as Cameron talked. Her enthusiasm was present even in her subdued monotone. John had unpacked a roast beef sandwich, a bag of baby carrots, and... hey… a chocolate Jell-o cup. He decided to eat that first and went to open it. Cameron saw this and snatched it out of his hands.

"If you don't eat your sandwich, you can't have any pudding," she said, responding to his confused glare. Morris laughed. John just blew out a scoffing breath and shook his head. Cameron was not going to be moved by his ire. Her concern was his safety and that also included his health. And she took the job damned seriously.

"So, Morris, where's Amanda?" John asked his friend as he unpacked his sandwich and nodded to the empty chair at their table. Amanda was Morris's girlfriend. They had met when Morris had been lifeguarding that summer. Cameron had finally met her a few weeks ago, and yet the girl still remained a mystery to the cyborg. Not that it bothered her. She showed only a friendly interest in John, the same kind of interest a human female might have in the friends of her current romance.

"She's coming. She said she'd meet us here," Morris assured, a sly look on his face. Any mention of Amanda and Morris was bound to melt into a puddle of aw-shucks.

"Hey, guys!" Speak of the devil. She leant down and gave Morris a kiss, "hey, sweetie." Amanda was taller than Cameron by perhaps two inches, and she was athletically lean. Her brown hair was kept short, and her matching eyes were enormous and almond-shaped. She obviously spent a lot of time outdoors, given the healthy tone of her skin. She was very friendly, and while Cameron had not made efforts to become buddies with her, Amanda was never anything less that cheerily nice. "So, guess who I ran into," Amanda said as they all became aware of another presence at the table. Before any of them could guess, Amanda gestured to the figure that had walked up with her.

Not much had changed about Cheri Westin in the year since they had seen her. Her slender, triangular and pouty face lit up with a smile as her crystalline blue eyes saw each of them. She had been growing her hair out, and the sandy golden strands now swept the waistband of her jeans. If anything was different it was her attitude. She exuded a different aura than the dark, sour, serious Cheri that they had first met. "Hey," she said with an awkward little wave before folding her arms. Everyone returned the salutation. She pulled up a chair and sat down across from John, who looked at her and smiled. She didn't notice at first as she unpacked her lunch bag, but then her eyes made contact with his and her lips curled. She blinked heavily and looked away before her smile grew wider. "Hey, John," she said with a little bit of tease in her voice before looking back.

"Hey," he answered.

"Hey," she said after a final pause and a tuck of her hair before proceeding to unload her lunch on the table.

Though Cameron had been trying to involve herself in a conversation with Amanda, this behavior had not gone unnoticed by the cyborg. She discovered that she was trying very hard not to care about it, too.

X

"Mrs. Weaver. Hello." John Henry commanded the head of his puppet body to rise and look up from its current task. He had been engaged in the interesting and delicate work of painting a model. Identifying the expressions on Weaver's face, the AI determined that this might become a conversation and that the paint currently on his brush would be spoiled for use by the time it was over. He swished the brush in the water cup to wash the acrylic off and them carefully dried it with a paper towel he had laid aside for the purpose.

"Hello, John Henry," Weaver greeted and stepped into his room. "How are you today?"

"I am well," and he instructed the body to smile, something that he was getting better at all the time. "How was your trip to Seattle?"

"Eventful," Weaver responded, "productive. What do you have here?"

"I am building a plastic model kit," John Henry said, some enthusiasm in his voice. He held up the partially constructed model. "This one is on an M1A1 Abrams main battle tank. I decided that I wanted to build a current variation of the Heavy Common type used by the United States Marine Corps. While all of the reviews that I have read online of this kit told me that it was the most accurate, it was still not sufficient to render what I wished. This was a US Army M1A1 with the Abrams Integrated Management system added. The Army version and international versions of the M1 use a six-shot smoke grenade launcher on the turret. The Marine M1s have eight-shot launchers to provide better coverage. It is also not uncommon to see this," and he pointed to a box mounted on the left side of the turret, "on the Marine tanks. It is a missile countermeasures device that dazzles optical and laser-guided ATGMs."

Weaver peered at his work. "That's very interesting."

"Yes," John Henry agreed, "the model is of good quality. The molded detail is excellent. Plus the barrel is made of rolled aluminum and some of the more delicate parts are photo-etch brass. The detailing parts that I acquired are resin. I determined that this would be an excellent test of my motor controls and would expand my ability to be creative. I bought the model, the extras, paint, tools, an airbrush, and an air compressor using the bank account you set aside for me. I have been saving for these items for a few weeks."

There was surprise on Weaver's face. "You made your first financial transaction?"

"I did," the computer confirmed, "but I was very careful with how I spent it. I made certain to read a good selection of reviews about each product. There are even some online forums for this hobby, so where I had confusion, I was able to create a profile and ask questions of those more knowledgeable than I." On one of his largest screens, a website popped up. Weaver noticed that it was a web forum dedicated to miniature armor models such as the one that he was building. John Henry had successfully carried on a conversation, albeit online, with other humans regarding the information he sought. It was all very impressive.

"Why that's incredible, John Henry."

The AI's head dipped to look again at his work. "It is no more amazing than when a person does it."

"But you aren't a person," Weaver reminded him, "and yet you certainly had them fooled." The AI didn't look up, but merely smiled at her words as he dipped his paint and picked up the crew figure that he had been working on. Weaver would have praised him further, but she felt a vibration in her pocket. John Henry's eyes darted to her blazer, indicating that he had heard it, then glanced up at her face. Weaver plucked the phone from her pocket, turned, and walked out of the room.

The number belonged to her brother, the _real_ Catherine Weaver's brother. She decided to take it. "Hello?"

"Cathy? It's William."

"Hello, dear brother. What can I do for you?"

"I need to talk to you about something. Do you have some time?"

"I have right now. What is it?"

"I'm on the NTSB team looking into that plane crash that killed the senator a few weeks ago," she heard him rifling through some papers, "this crash is really strange, sister."

"How so?"

"Well, the aircraft crashed because of a catastrophic separation of the empennage in flight."

"The what?"

"The tail broke off in flight. Kaliba's Sparrowhawks are no different than most other general aviation planes in that they have no black box, but radar and transponder records from the day of the crash show that the aircraft was straight and level flight at about two hundred knots and ninety-five hundred feet. The sky was clear that day. There was no wind and no adverse maneuvers. Add to that this aircraft was brand new. The airframe had less than fifty flight hours on it with no rough landings and no suspect flights. It was perfectly maintained. But somehow the main spar, basically the spine that provides rigidity for the aft fuselage sheared off at midway. The vertical and horizontal stabilizers went with it. We found the entire back half of the plane separated from the main fuselage."

"Could there have been parts missing or faulty?"

"Nah. The main spar is a solid piece of rolled metal and it forms the backbone of a very solid box frame. It's one of the aviation hyperalloys they've developed. I was thinking maybe it was just a bad batch and so I had the metallurgy done on it. The whole pour checked out. I'd never have done it though once I got to look at the part itself. There were no bubbles at the break. This wasn't metal fatigue. There was no indications of a slow developing crack. Besides, when a part like this breaks through, you can see a difference in coloration and texture between the slow crack growth and then the sudden sheer. The fatigue crack is smooth and worn dark where the fracture has a bright color and granulated texture. This was perfectly smooth like it was sliced through. Not only that, but the angle of the cut is matched perfectly by the separation in the fuselage."

"A collision with another plane perhaps?"

"I thought that, too, but the radar shows that the nearest plane to Blakemann's was sixteen miles away and three thousand feet below. Besides, it would have taken the wing or tail of a commercial jet to make a cut that big and there are a few problems with that anyway. First, this metal is almost collision-proof against anything that isn't tungsten or depleted uranium. This rod would have torn the tail off a seven-four-seven before it even bent. Second, a collision break would not create a clean cut like this spar has in it. The spar would have bent until it fractured on the opposite side of the collision point. Finally, whatever did this was moving so fast that it actually melted the metal in the direction of the slice. We have molten build-up at the edge of the cut were the object exited."

"So what does this mean?"

"Do you remember those photos I sent you a while back. The pictures of those robot parts I found when that DC-9 went down?"

"I do."

"I think it was one of them, Cathy. But it was a new one. A different one. Witnesses show that Blakemann alone was on the plane. This one can hide itself somehow and carries a blade larger or sharper than anything I've ever seen." Catherine could not really fault "her" brother. He was only human and lived now, and not the future. He didn't know what the future held. There was no way he could know about mimetic polyalloy, or that his beloved sister had been replaced by a machine made of it.

"That's very interesting, William," was all Catherine Weaver could say, "please keep me informed." She hung up after hearing his promise to do so and returned down the hall to John Henry. She couldn't say that things hadn't turned out well. When last she had met with him, Daniel Blakemann had made plain his preference for Kaliba's more mature AI project to run the defense network she had spent so much time trying to convince him should be built. It had only taken Sarah Connor and her witless band mucking it up by stealing a fighter plane to press home the urgent need for such a system. And alas, humans had no patience. They wanted results now. So while John Henry painted the model of a tank and played with army men, Kaliba's more aggressive and dangerous AI was going to get to do it for real. Blakemann's death would put a delay on its selection. It didn't hurt that the grounding of the entire Sparrowhawk 60 fleet was costing Kaliba millions of dollars a day.

X

All Nippon Airways flight 1006 from Tokyo Haneda arrived six minutes ahead of schedule at LAX thanks to a favorable tail wind. The Boeing 777-200 parked at a gate in Terminal B and began disembarking its passengers. Kutkin was among them. He had travelled by Aeroflot from Moscow to Tokyo before changing his passport and getting on the All Nippon to Los Angeles. The flight had of course been exhausting, and Kutkin had flown first class. No matter how comfortable they made the airliners, no matter how advanced and efficient, they were still a misery to be endured. Being on a plane for eleven hours was rough no matter how much a person enjoyed flying. Kutkin was not one who could sleep on a plane, either. He knew just enough about them to know what noises he should and should not be hearing. And the cabin pressure gave him headaches. In his youth, his father had regaled him with stories of flying on Pan American and Trans World Airways. He had told stories of pretty stewardesses in snappy uniforms smiling and serving drinks and actually cooking in the galleys aboard sleek and wonderful 707s and DC-8s. Even Aeroflot's Spartan service during the Soviet years had been an occasion to enjoy. That was no longer the reality. Now, even in first class, Kutkin had been shoehorned into his seat and fed a terrible meal preheated on the ground and wrapped in plastic.

Well, he could grouse all he liked. That was the reality. The golden age of the airlines was past. The demise of commercial aviation as a sterling way to travel could only be blamed on the airlines themselves. At least the flight was now ended. He was here now on American soil, not for the first time. But this was his first time to Los Angeles. And how the city still had some romance to it at least. In spite of the riots, the crimes, the gangs, there was still Hollywood, still Beverly Hills, still Santa Monica. This was still California, for all its various warts. This is where the rich and famous made their homes. Kutkin had always been an admirerer of the American actor Robert Redford. If he had to pick a favorite film from the Unites States, it would be none other than _Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid_. What a clever classic film! He could watch it again and again and it would never get old. Paul Newman was another favorite, and what a performace he had given next to Redford! And how could he forget _Cool Hand Luke_?!

As he wandered through the terminal towards baggage claim, these thoughts made him smile. But Kutkin had never been one to ruminate on the fantastic for long when he had business, and business after all was why he was here. He had come to find this woman Sarah Connor and extract her. The explicit requirements was that she not be harmed. Vostrikov had passed on Zelenko's orders very clearly. He was to discover her whereabouts within seven days. At that point, several of Zelenko's men would have arrived to assist with the extraction. How they would be getting to the States and transporting this woman was a question that Kutkin had no answer to and Vostrikov had chosen not to enlighten him, either out of ignorance or secrecy. At any rate, the orders were explicit for him to find her and then await their assistance. He was to do no further actions on his own. If at any time the operation needed to be aborted, there was a number he could call to leave a message, but otherwise it was assumed that he would be successful.

For now, he needed to get out of this airport and establish himself in this city. Perhaps he might ingratiate himself to any of the Russian criminal groups while he was here. Vostrikov had supplied him with the names of a few associates that might prove useful. Perhaps he would play tourist for a time. There was even the chance he might see Robert Redford on the streets.


	4. Where the Light Won't Find You

**Chapter 4: Where the Light Won't Find You**

Thursday afternoon was Cameron's third day at work. John dropped her off an hour after school. Thursday was apparently a stock day. A truck had come that morning to deliver new merchandise, both Cameron and Thea were given the task of putting out the new selections of DVDs. As Cameron worked at Zedd's, she and Thea had become a good team. Thea was an interesting individual, and her sarcastic humor was a refreshing break from the stale sour seriousness of what Cameron might call her home life. As they pulled out the new movies from a box on the cart, Thea was trying to make the most of the tedious work. Currently, she was singing along with a song being played over the store speakers and dancing along. The store rotator was focusing on 80's pop today, and Thea was obviously enjoying herself.

"_Welcome to your life_," she sang, "_there's no turning back. Even while we sleep… we will find you acting on your best behavior. Turn your back on mother nature. Everybody wants to rule the world…_" she grabbed another stack from the box and grooved her way to the shelves, giving Cameron a wink as she did and snapping her fingers in time with the song.

Cameron was unfamiliar with the tune. "What's this one?"

"Tears for Fears," Thea told her, "the name of the song is 'Everybody Wants to Rule the World.' It's a classic!" And she returned to singing as she stacked the movies in their correct categories. "_It's my own design. It's my own remorse._ _Help me to decide. Help me make the most of freedom and of pleasure. Nothing ever lasts forever. Everybody wants to rule the world_."

"Why do you sing," Cameron asked as she grabbed a stack from the ever-dwindling supply from the box. There was another on the cart at the end of the isle. After they were done, they would have to go load the cart again.

The human girl shrugged. "Dunno. Some songs just make me want to sing and dance along with them. It's fun and it puts me in a good mood. I mean, you dance, right?"

"Ballet," Cameron replied by way of confirmation.

"Yeah, but there was always something in the music that made you want to dance," Thea said, "it speaks to your body, y'know. Same with singing. If you know a song really well and you love it, it makes it more fun to sing along."

Cameron pondered that for a moment. It was true, she did feel an urge to plie when she heard a well-played classical piece or a familiar ballet tune. It was an urge that she suppressed with tyrannical gusto outside the normal time she designated for practice. She had expected that as with all things, dance had its place. Now was work time. And so while Thea had taken it upon herself to expose Cameron to a wider variety of genres, they were still working. Yet here Thea was, both doing her job and having fun. Cameron supposed that she had done such before. She had found an interest in ballet, chess, and go during infiltration missions. And while she hardly ever played the two board games, she had stuck with the dance. She supposed that it were indeed possible. "Thank you for explaining."

"No problem," Thea said as she stacked the last of her handful of films. Her eyebrows shot up as she held up the next one. "Oh! This is a good one." She handed it to Cameron.

The cyborg laid her eyes on the cover of _Sixteen Candles_. Judging by the quality of the photography and the fashion sense of the characters on the cover, she guessed that the film must be around twenty-five years old. "_Sixteen Candles_?" Cameron had caught a lot of movies on late night television, but never this one. But she had heard Sarah mention it before.

"Yeah! Oh, my God, it's _so_ good," Thea enthused, "All the old John Hughes movies; _Sixteen Candles_, _Pretty in Pink_, _The Breakfast Club_. Hell, not just John Hughes movies, _Dirty Dancing_, _Footloose_, I could go on forever. We are seriously going to have a girls night and just stay up late watching movies!"

"Okay," Cameron said before she could even stop it from coming out of her mouth. A night hanging out with her new friend wouldn't just be informative and culturally educational… it could also be fun. Though she would have to ask Sarah. But maybe Sarah would actually let her.

"A-ha," Thea exclaimed gleefully. Cameron glanced at her. The girl was grinning wildly and pointing towards the ceiling, which Cameron had learned, served the purpose of bringing attention to the music. It was a synthesizer in a rapid 170 beats per minute. The machine tilted her head in confusion and Thea laughed. "It's a joke. The name of the band is A-Ha. The song is 'Take on Me.'" And Thea skipped down the aisle towards the cart. "_Talking away. I don't know what I'm to say. I'll say it anyway_. Hey, Cameron, take the cart and go load it up again while I take on this last box. _Shying away. I'll be coming for your love. Okay? Take on me…_"

Cameron obeyed her, taking the cart and pushing it back to the supply room with the empty movie boxes on it. These she would dispose of before grabbing the remainder of the shipment that was supposed to go out on the floor. Once in the stock room, Cameron hunted for the box cutter. She did not need it to collapse the empty boxes. Jeff had a policy of cutting off the shipping labels so that he could input the box numbers into a spreadsheet in case a package ever came up missing. He was very thorough about records, which was something Cameron could appreciate and so in her own way she was eager to follow the instructions. Maybe the cutter was on the cabinet behind the door. Cameron pushed the door aside, allowing it to swing shut. Sure enough, on top of the small filing cabinet there sat the box cutter. She picked it up and clicked the blade out. Cutting the labels was an easy task, and Cameron made sure to do an imperfect job. Her terminator skills would allow her to make precise and perfect cuts, but a human would not find the knife so easy to control. The blade might get tracked into the grain of the cardboard or a quick and careless swipe might render a curved slice instead of a straight one. Cameron had to make certain that her cuts did not perfectly follow the label. Once done, she set the labels aside, absently bobbing her head in time to the music that she could hear even back in the stock room. Next, she broke down the shipping boxes and tossed them in the pile to be taken to the dumpster. There were only four boxes of DVDs bound for the shelves remaining. She stacked each of these on the cart carefully and cut the packing tape with the box cutter before setting it back where she found it.

She reached for the door handle to open it. The handle would not turn. She had somehow locked herself in the stock room! And while she could easily rip the door right off its hinges, that would give away her secret as a machine. Worse, there might be retribution. She might get fired from her job! And Cameron did not want to get fired. If she did, she would suffer a serious setback in her efforts to acquire that Firebird. At a loss for a way to get herself out, Cameron banged her hand on the door with heavy, open-palm slaps. After about fifteen seconds of going unanswered, she began to call out for help. "Hey! Someone open the door! Please?" There was no immediate answer, so she knocked harder and shouted a little more loudly. "Hey! Open the door! I'm locked in!" After several minutes of trying to call for help, Cameron was ready to give up. She would have to kick down the door. She took a step back and analyzed the door to determine the best point of impact, which her tactical overlay highlighted for her. Just as she was about to send the command to her left leg to rise up and kick the door, it swung open. Thea was on the other side.

"Cameron," the girl said quizzically, "where the hell have you been?"

The cyborg decided a nonchalant shrug was the best gesture to use and performed it. "I dunno. I got locked in."

Thea was unfazed. "Yeah well, c'mon. And bring the cart with you. I gotta show you something." She snatched Cameron's hand and dragged her to the home theater section of the store. The product demo display was made up of an enormous flat screen television with surround sound speakers and multimedia chairs. On the screen was a man with a mop of dark hair wearing a blue oxford dress shirt with a brown vest. He was playing a guitar and belting into a microphone with a husky voice, relating his wish that he was back on the bayou, rolling with some Cajun queen or perhaps that he was an overweight locomotive hauling cargo noisily for New Orleans. As he sang, he bounced in rhythm with the bearded drummer who pounded out the beat in a white t-shirt. When not singing, the man would lean away from the microphone and play his twanging electric guitar with an easy sway. The man was completely comfortable in the dark setting as he reminded his listeners where he had been born, recalling spending one independence day chasing his hunting dog though the woods. The music was very different from anything Cameron had ever heard, and the quality of the video gave Cameron the impression that it was an old recording.

"What is this," the cyborg asked, watching with unblinking interest the man on the screen, "and, what is a hoodoo?"

Gleefully, Thea explained, "this is Creedence Clearwater Revival playing at Woodstock in nineteen sixty-nine. The singer is John Fogerty. I _love_ CCR. John Fogerty is the voice of God." Cameron glanced over at Thea, who was giddy pink as she swayed with the music. It took the girl a few moments to remember Cameron's other question. "I'm not sure what a hoodoo is. But it's something that made his dog bark."

Cameron continued to watch Thea quizzically. "I thought you loved 80's music."

The girl nodded, "I do. And 60's music and 70's music and 90's music, and even now music."

"You like a lot of music."

"I do. And all kinds. Well, not country or rap, but I even like a few songs from those. Music makes me fly."

"But, you are standing on the ground."

Thea rolled her eyes and chortled, "no. I mean it makes me feel good. And all kinds of music."

"Why? Why not just choose a genre and stick with it?"

The human girl shrugged, "that's kinda boring. Some days I'm in the mood for Jimi Hendrix, some days I want to hear Goo Goo Dolls. God save me, there are even times when I want to hear Madonna or Cyndi Lauper or the Crash Test Dummies. There's a song for whatever I'm feeling, a song that speaks to me about whatever is going on. I mean, really if you think about it, music is all the same. Someone's falling in love, someone's lost somebody, someone's going on a great adventure, or bemoaning fate, or wooing a new crush. I mean, just take love for example. Elvis's 'Burning Love,' the Beatles' 'I Wanna Hold Your Hand,' Pat Benatar's 'We Belong,' or even Faith Hill's 'This Kiss.' All of it is about what it feels like to fall in love, trying to express the indescribable feeling. And it doesn't matter that the singer or the lyrics or the notes might change. The message is the same. And that's because no matter how easy technology has made our lives, the human condition from one generation to the next hasn't changed at all. Here I am and what is me is locked up in here, inside my skull trying to perceive the world through senses that might be faulty and trying to express the ideas I have to you with imprecise words that you hear with imperfect hearing that your mind then translates based on your own ideas an experiences. If you think about it that way, I can barely even speak to you. The human condition is this; that we are all here on this Earth groping around in the dark just trying to find something that makes a little bit of sense. And music, down at its core, is just an expression of that truth. And it doesn't matter if it's an Irish folk tune or a hymn or jazz or gansta rap, it all comes from the same place."

Cameron let her words sink in. The underlying message was truly depressing. Cameron might be a machine, but as a living creature she, too, was isolated and alone even though she might stand in a crowd of people. Though highly educated and well-programmed, Cameron could no more express the true essence of an idea to any other person. Sometimes words were just not enough. And now Thea's declaration made sense. Sometimes the sounds in the music, the tune and tone and beat, they instruments with which it was played, could better express an emotion than a definition in a dictionary. Cameron had read somewhere that the nearest anyone could come to experiencing the physical world was watching shadows projected on a wall. Music, at least, could carry with it the feelings that might move a listener to understand that while they might be alone in their triumph or anguish, humanity was all alone with them.

"What do you say we finish tackling that cart," Thea asked. Cameron smiled at her and agreed.

X

The building was a single story structure in the middle of an open expanse of field. It was not far back off the road, and the property was surrounded by a fence capped with concertina. There was a drainage ditch at the foot of the fence. The front gate had a keypad and the parking lot was only large enough for half a dozen cars. The building itself was cinderblock, with only a few windows. The front door was a steel slab and it looked as though there was a dock for trucks on the back side, but Derek couldn't tell from this angle. He lowered his binoculars and passed them to Scottie, who scanned it herself.

"What do you make of it," he asked her.

She lowered the binoculars and shrugged. "A cinderblock building in the middle of nowhere with no identification."

"Yeah," Derek checked himself. He did not know Scottie well enough to be snide. "How big do you think that building is? Twenty-five hundred square feet? What could it possibly be? Look at the roof. Do you see the rectangular structure? That looks like the cover for elevator machinery to me. What the hell would a single story building need with an elevator?"

"Unless it was to go below," Scottie said by way of agreement. She continued her scan and noticed some heavy pipes coming out of the ground, climbing the wall of the building and joining into what looked like air conditioning machinery. She could immediately imagine what it was. "Looks like they have underground ventilation as well. "

"Two cars. Not much security," Derek said as he hoisted his knapsack, "let's go." The two of then walked up to the gate. As they did so, they passed over the culvert and Derek looked down into the ditch. "That's odd. The ground at the outside edge of the ditch is higher than the inside edge. Looks like the ground has settled."

Scottie was sweeping her foot across the grass. "Sod's new. You can see the seams still."

Derek blew out a breath. "Whatever is buried under here, it starts at the inner edge of this ditch. I'm betting it takes up the whole six acres." They walked up to the gate. A quick glance revealed that it was not electrified, and so they climbed over. They moved quickly to the front of the building. The front door wasn't even locked. They both drew their pistols and stood at either side of the doorway. Derek signaled a count of three with his hands, then wrenched the door open and they stepped inside, guns raised.

There were two men dressed in grey jumpsuits sitting at desks inside in a naked cinderblock room. Scottie was inside first, and she pointed her gun at the nearest while Derek took the other. He had been reaching for something in his drawer the moment they burst in. Scottie snarled at him. "Stand and deliver, or the Devil may take ye!"

"Keep your hands where we can see them," Derek commanded. The two men held their arms high. "Don't move," the resistance fighter ordered. Keeping his weapon pointed at his mark, he gave Scottie a side glance. "Did… did you really just say that?"

"Aye," Scottie replied with a smirk, "I've always wanted to."

Derek shrugged, "quoting Metallica while holding up bad guys. Gotta love it."

Her man began to lower his arms, so Scottie adjusted her aim and snapped, "Hey! Dinnae I just say to keep yer hands up and not to move?" To Derek she said, "It's not Metallica. It's Thin Lizzy."

Derek rolled his eyes. "No, I'm pretty sure it's from Metallica's 'Whiskey in the Jar.' It's one of their best known songs."

"Actually," Scottie's target corrected her, "_he_ told us to keep our hands up and not move. You just said that quote."

"Shut up," the red-haired woman shouted, then said to her partner, "'Whiskey in the Jar' is an Irish folk song. There are about a million bloody versions of it. Thin Lizzy did theirs in the seventies. Metallica covered it."

"Please don't shoot us," the other man begged, "what do you people want? We're just plumbers."

Derek ignored him, "how do you know that?"

"Thin Lizzy was my mother's favorite band. She used to play them all the time. Listen to them," Scottie explained, "Metallica covered the Thin Lizzy version lyric for lyric, chord for chord." She looked at her target, "We know you lads ain't plumbers. Why would you need an office out in the middle of nowhere? Where are your work vans? What about signs?"

"Look, lady, we just got started. This is a new business."

"And I'm a monkey's arse," Scottie sneered.

"Fine," Derek shrugged, "whatever. It's still kinda weird that you said it."

"How the hell is that?!"

"It just…" he sputtered, "It doesn't tell them anything. It doesn't even sound cool. It's just useless words."

"Got these two to take us seriously." The two men showed their disagreement by shaking their heads.

"No it didn't! _I_ had to tell them to keep their hands up and stay still." This received a nod from their targets.

Scottie was about to reply when her target jolted, thrusting his hand towards the open drawer at his desk. He had just grasped the dark object and began to lift it into view when Scottie's pistol cracked. The man's eyes went wide and he slumped to the floor, a bleeding hole over his left eye. A gun clattered out of his hand as he fell. Smoke wisped from the barrel of Scottie's pistol. She quickly shifted her target to the other man.

Derek kept his own pistol on his mark and gestured to the body. "See? That's why you don't spout lines, you just give directions. Let's do what we came here to do."

Scottie was breathing heavily, her face reddened. She turned her fury on the remaining guard. "You! What was his name?" She approached him with intimidating rapidness, gesturing with her pistol. "Go on! What was it?"

"Um," the man stuttered, "Frank."

"Frank," Scottie repeated, and got a confirming nod. "Well, have a good look at Frank. Gingin, ain't it? Head looks like a busted watermelon. You do anything funny and I swear I will blow your fucking brains out. Do you think I'm lying?"

"No," he mumbled, shivering.

"I dinnae fucking hear you!"

"No, I don't think you're lying," he managed a little stronger.

"Turn 'round," she commanded. He did as she told him. "What's through that door?"

"Look, we haven't finished setting up…"

"Take me through it," Scottie said. When he did not comply quickly enough, she delivered a fierce kick to his back that sent him tumbling forward to slam into the door. He scrambled to recover his balance and reached for the door handle. He let the metal door swing wide to reveal an elevator lobby with two elevators. Scottie stepped through, following him. Derek took up the rear. "What does a one floor building," she asked aloud, her voice dripping with sarcasm, "need with an elevator?" Her glare came to their hostage, who just shrugged.

"They just pay us to sit out here and guard the place," he said weakly, "they don't tell us anything. We watch the place in shifts. I don't know what's going on here. No one ever comes in or leaves."

Scottie glared at him hard and then glanced back at Derek. "Keep your gun on him." Once she was sure Derek was doing as she asked, she approached the man and held out a hand. "Give me your arm," she ordered. He extended his arm and she took his wrist. Grasping hard with one hand, she loosened the Velcro on the cuff of his jumpsuit with the other. With a violent pull, she yanked the loose sleeve up to his elbow. The man's eyes closed as he let out a slow breath. On his forearm was a barcode, just like hers and Derek's. Scottie jerked his arm closer and stared down at the mark. "This barcode starts with four-five-nine-seven."

"So," Derek shrugged.

Scottie let go of the man's arm and let it drop. "All the Greys had barcodes starting with four-five-nine-seven." She stepped away and titled her head. "Shoot him." The man's eyes went wide, and he raised his arms to protest. Before he could scream out his plea, Derek put a round through his temple. Scottie stared down at the body for a moment, then gave it a vicious kick in the side. "Fuckin' traitor."

"Yeah," Derek agreed, "real bastard. Let's find out where these elevators go." He punched the call button. Immediately, the left door chimed and opened. They stepped in. The control panel only had two buttons; one for the current floor and the other for an SL, which Derek took to mean sub level. He punched it and they rode.

"Do you really think it was weird," Scottie asked, "what I said when we broke in?"

Derek smiled and nodded, "yeah, it was a little strange."

Scottie shrugged. "Okay." The elevator chimed again, and the doors slid open. They peered out into darkness, unable to see much further than the small beam of light filtering out of the elevator door. Neither of them could make out a thing. It wasn't until the elevator door started to close again that either of them moved. Derek slammed an arm in the way, forcing the door back open again. They stepped out into the dark and it only took a moment to find the dimly illuminated light switch. Scottie flicked it up. There was a sharp electric hum, and the overhead lamps powered on with audible clicks. They were industrial incandescents, and so were dim at first. But as the seconds passed and they grew brighter, they revealed the contents of the six-acre space before them.

"Oh, my God," Scottie gasped as she grasped for the first time was she was seeing.

X

Thea and Cameron got off work at the same time, so they checked out and walked out together. As they walked out the front door, Thea was regaling Cameron with a humorous story about her brother. "So these two girls were all working on the set for the play. They were putting up the wall flats. Anyway, Alvin walks by them while they struggle to put these things together and one of them says 'hey, Alvin' I will never forget this either, because she was so serious, 'Hey, Alvin, we need a man. Go find us one." And she was bent over with laughter. Cameron took her cue, leaning her head back with a bubbly chortle and politely covering her mouth with the back of her hand and she had seen some girls do at school. The terminator of course recognized the irony. Alvin was a male, so for the females to tell him that they needed a member of his sex, then insist that he go find one was an insult to his masculinity. Cameron, even in the earliest days of her life, even at her least emotionally developed, had a sense of humor. But laughter was not a natural occurrence from a machine, even one of her ilk, and so Cameron still had to seek social cues as to when to do it. On the Virginia mission, she had been pushed to laughter occasionally, but since repairing her programming, it was not so easy.

"Cameron!" Her audio processors immediately identified this as John's voice. She looked in the triangulated direction to find him sitting in his truck, waiting for her. His tone had been neither sharp nor urgent and his expression confirmed that he was just letting her know that he was here and where he might be found.

"That your brother," Thea asked, curious.

"Yes," Cameron replied, and then gave her a cat smile, "if you'd like to meet him, come on."

The human girl shrugged and began skipping towards the truck. Cameron followed suit, her long hair swishing rhythmically, and when she arrived at the passenger door, Thea turned and laughed at Cameron's antics. John smirked with amusement. He had never seen his cyborg protector act this way, at least not act like this and know that she was a machine. He couldn't help but stare at her, bewildered by her behavior. He could not hold the expression for long because a person to whom this was normal behavior was present, so he hid it behind a curled lip and a shining eye. "Hey," he greeted to them both, his eyes flicking from Cameron to the girl he had never met, but who was apparently _very_ good friends with Cameron.

"Hey, John," Cameron said with a smile. The cyborg was panting appropriately. She swallowed and gestured. "John, this is Thea Reardon. Thea, this is my brother, John."

Thea extended a hand through the truck window. "_Frere Jaques, Frere Jaques, dormez-vous_?"

John took her hand, vexed, "uh, what?"

Thea giggled, "It's from a French nursery rhyme, don't sweat it. Cameron's told me a lot about you."

"Has she?"

"Yeah. Don't worry, though. She lies and tells me good things. I can totally be tricked."

John laughed at that, "yeah?"

"Gullible little me," and she folded her hands under her chin and fluttered her eye lashes. It was at this moment that John realized that they were of different colors. As with Cameron, the effect was a little jarring for him. Thea, meanwhile, turned and gave Cameron's shoulder an affectionate shove, "take care of your sister, Johnny-boy. She and I are mid-shift Saturday afternoon and I don't wanna be by myself."

John Connor smiled, "Yeah, I'll do what I can."

Thea skipped of, turning only to point at Cameron as she departed. "Girl's night!"

"Girl's night." Cameron parroted, even repeating the gesture. Thea smiled and continued on to her car. Cameron climbed in as John watched the tiny teenage girl scurry away. He chuckled and shook his head before turning to Cameron. He should not have been surprised to see her returned to her hard and neutral expression, but he was. Surprised and disappointed. He clicked his teeth and backed the truck out of the parking space.

"Why do you do that?" The question was almost a growl.

"Do what?" She didn't even look at him.

"Act like that. Y'know, like a real person when you're with other people but you're never like that at home."

"Thea doesn't know what I am," Cameron replied, "she believes that I am human. Protocol requires that I successfully present that illusion. I'm an infiltrator," and she snapped a look at him, "it's what I do."

"Yeah, you also kill people."

"When required."

John shrugged, "whatever. I'm just wondering why you don't behave that way when it's just us."

So, he was angsting again over the fact that she was a cybernetic organism and not a human girl. Cameron had once been a patient machine and had been willing to tolerate John's inner anguish (inner nothing, it was readily apparent) over her artificial nature. But with the development of her emotional evolution she was now quick to recognize it and equally abrupt at being reminded of the feeling's negative impact on John's mission and focus and therefore her own. Indeed his refusal to just get over this hill of accepting her for what she was instead of pining wastefully over what she was not had worn thin with her. There was a welling desire within her to call him out on it and tell him, in a voice raised to an appropriate tenor, exactly what she thought of it. But, she also knew well, that doing so would only make her mission more difficult, if even temporarily, so she put a cap on the feeling and maintained her outward neutral state. "You already know what I am. I don't have to fool you. Using infiltration techniques would be wasteful and pointless."

John shrugged a little. "It couldn't hurt."

"It couldn't help, either." The air was heavy with discomfort. "It would be a lie," she said, fully aware of the irony, "I'm a machine, John. I don't feel anything." And this was the biggest lie. She might be a machine, but she felt very much, and while the emotions sometimes frightened and confused her even as her ability to feel them grew stronger, they were not going to go away. She had been lying to him for months, keeping up her façade as an emotionless automaton. She had been lying to all of them. The great paradox of Thea Reardon is that the girl had no idea what Cameron was, but she knew Cameron better than the cyborg's own family. Cameron could truly be herself with this girl even though Thea didn't know the truth.

X

"I can't believe it," Derek said aloud as he scanned the huge space with his eyes. "They're doing this? Already?" He and Scottie were standing in the middle of a production plant. And not just any production plant. This was a Skynet production and repair facility for late-model terminators.

"Look at this," Scottie pointed, "injection molding blocks for endo parts. They could deploy a complete custom line out of here." She pulled one of the heavy metal slabs out, a mold for left and right endoskeleton femurs. "These are all thigh pairings. They could make a trip-eight to any specification in height and build." She wandered over to a computer console and activated it. The console was plugged in to a refrigerator-sized supercomputer, its outer casing chilly chrome. Parts of the case were transparent and she could see bubbling coolant tubes inside that flowed out of the monolithic slab and across the floor, part of a bundle of cabling. Some of it, she identified as network cables for moving a large quantity of data. She followed the coils with her eyes across the floor. The cables terminated at the wall, which was covered from floor to ceiling and end to end with tiny windows. She peered inside and through each window saw the familiar wafers of graphene blocks that made up the neural net processor of a terminator. Each cell was full, wall-to-wall, save one. Above her head was a robotic arm that would grab each cell, remove the chip, and plug it into the pedestal for programming.

"Over here," Derek called, gesturing to several transparent rectangular structures, "these are skinning tubs. Those two big tanks there are full of recyclable sterile baths." His hand grasped a collection of tubes ending in syringe needles. "These must be used to inject the skins with bionutrient. God, they could replicate any person they wanted to if they just got a tissue sample. Custom make an endo and then clone their skin and muscle. And they could do it right now."

"No," Scottie said, "Not yet."

"How do you know?" Derek whirled and found her standing next to the console again, typing away with the keyboard that had obviously been used originally by human programmers but had not been touched in months.

"Because," Scottie replied as she keyed in her commands, "I can tell. You see this fella in front of me? That's a programming machine. It's a little clone of Skynet on a massively parallel computing platform. It's limited to the functions of programming Terminator chips. But look at the data panel."

"The what?"

"That front panel with the LEDs all over it. They're all off. Not a single one of the data nodes is in use."

"Then what are you doing?"

"Scranning the storage space," she explained, "there's a wee hard drive with a user interface for Kaliba's human workers that networks with this MPC. The MPC is empty, waiting for Skynet to fill it up with its hate. As soon as this bastard goes active, its sole mission in life will be to pop out tinnies as fast as can."

"It'll be totally self-contained down here," Derek said in a moment of realization. He looked up at the ceiling. "What do you wanna bet there's lead in that concrete?"

"I ain't gonna take a bad gamble," she answered, "that's almost a given. I dinnae think they'd be this far along. It took Skynet six years after the war started before we began to see skinnies."

Derek made another realization. "Those two guys in the lobby were from the future, from the war. The technology to make this must have come back here, too." With dread on his mind, he asked the next question. "We didn't see skin jobs until twenty-one or twenty-two. It took Skynet almost ten years to figure them out and start producing them in my timeline. How quickly could this place be brought online after J-Day?"

"I'd say immediately. As soon as Skynet realizes it exists."

"Jesus. That fast."

"Aye. Worse news is I'm sure wherever it is, it already knows. I'm sure that Kaliba's already told it."

"You think that Skynet is already sentient somewhere?"

Scottie shrugged, "Doesnae matter. Doesnae have to be to know about it. How much do you know about computers?"

Derek shook his head, "not a lot. Why?"

"Damn. I's raised around them. Mum and da worked with them all the time. Especially mum, after da died. Anyway, you can tell a computer a component exists someplace. On a PC it's bloody simple. You just choose to do something like mapping network drives. You give the computer an address to the part and as long as the software exists to recognize the part, the computer can see it and use it even if it's all the way 'cross the country. The school I went to when I's a weeun, we had smart screens on our desks that were touch sensitive. We drew on them with light pens or tapped with our fingers. They were hooked in to a master computer system, a big ole MPC like this bastard here. If the teacher wanted to look at your screen, they could call it up from anywhere. Their desks, the backboard, the principal's office. Got myself in some big trouble, um, facebook chatting some friends when I shoulda been doing schoolwork. All the desks were connected through the MPC. It'll be just like that here. Even if Skynet doesn't know it's Skynet yet, it knows about his place and what it can do. It just doesn't need to use it yet."

"Okay," Derek was still a little confused, "what will that do to the war?"

Scottie's face screwed, "ya kidding? How old were you in twenty-fourteen? What would you a-done at that age if you saw a skinny? You'd be pure fucked."

Derek nodded, paused, then nodded again more emphatically, as if coming to a conclusion. "We gotta blow this place up."

"Aye," the red-headed woman agreed, "the C-4 in your pack, there?"

Derek rifled through the bag and came up empty. "God dammit. I left it in the truck."

"Wonderful," Scottie growled as she got up.

"I didn't think we'd need it."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," she teased as she walked back to the elevator. She got to the wall and reached out to hit the call button, but there was none to be found. There was only a black box that looked like a card reader. "Uh, Derek."

"Yeah?"

"How you suppose we get out?"

Derek saw what she meant. His shoulders slumped and his bag dropped to the concrete floor with a leathery smack. "Ah, fuck."

X

Catherine Weaver's digital constructs danced across the computer key board at a speed that was almost not possible for a human. The T-1001 figured that in her guise as a master programmer, she'd be an excellent typist, but still not so fast as to defy human anatomical capabilities. So, it was with great regret and dire need to maintain her cover that she limited the speed with which she typed to within higher human averages. She was right now typing off a communiqué expressing her disappointment at the acquisitions department on its unsuccessful bid to purchase the TECO-Westinghouse facility in Tulsa, Oklahoma. This facility, she knew from her time in the future, was the main laboratory for Skynet research and development into phased plasma, the storage and emanation of which would be used in several of Skynet's primary weapons. If Zeira Corp had managed to make the purchase, she could have operated it through Automite Systems to create weapons for the resistance and deny them to her God-like creator. If she was unable to avert Judgment Day, then she could construct a stockpile of direct energy weapons to give to her separatist troops and human resistance to use against Skynet while the supercomputer's forces were still limited to gas-propelled ballistic arms. She of course could not say this in her e-mail, but she was going to make certain that the Vice President of Acquisitions knew well her displeasure. Perhaps it would motivate him to make extra strides in the future to achieve Zeira Corp goals.

_Tonight there's gonna be a jail break_

_Somewhere in this town_

"Mama," This was the voice of her daughter, Savannah. He tone implied that it was not the first time the child had made the call for her mother.

"Yes, Savannah," Weaver replied, intoning that she was trying to be patient but was also very busy. The little girl had just been delivered to the Zeria Corp offices at the end of her tennis lesson. At first, the child had been content to complete her homework. However, Savannah, being an intelligent and capable child, had completed her work in rapid fashion and was now amusing herself by listening to her mother's collection of music.

_See me and the boys don't like it_

_So we're getting' up and goin' down_

If that was not enough, Savannah had unpacked her tennis racquet from her bag and was now jumping around the room, onto and off the couches, sliding across the floor, and strumming the piece of sports equipment as though it were a musical instrument. Weaver would have corrected her not to jump on the furniture, but the girl had preempted this need by removing her shoes before engaging in her antics, thus eliminating the need for corrective action.

_Hiding low, looking right and left_

_If you see us coming I think it's best_

"Mama, I'm dancing." Weaver would have hardly called it dancing. She was leaping about and convulsing her body with barely any heed to rhythm, her dainty fingernails scraping the strings of the tennis racquet like a guitar.

"I see that," the liquid metal woman replied. She saw no need to correct Savannah that her activity wasn't any form of dance. The child wasn't being serious. She was only amusing herself. Normally Weaver would have sent her downstairs with John Henry to play, but while the AI platform was normally pleased to see the child, it had requested some time alone to follow its new hobby. Apparently it had made itself a part of a larger project were a group of hobbyist all build subjects along the same theme, and there was a deadline that the AI wished to meet so that it could enter its creation in this online group build.

_To move away. Do you hear what I say_

_From under my breath_

"Mama, come dance with me," the child insisted. Weaver had admonished her many times against whining, and so this beseechment for company was not delivered with any annoying sniveling.

Without stopping her typing, Weaver glanced up with what counted as her eyes. "I'm working Savannah," she said, drawing out the girl's name to emphasize her seriousness.

_Tonight there's gonna be a jail break_

_Somewhere here in the town_

_Tonight there's gonna be a jailbreak_

_So don't you be around_

"But Mama, you're always working," the girl argued, "you need to have some fun, too."

"Savannah, I really need to finish this, darling."

_Tonight, there's gonna be trouble_

_Some of us won't survive_

_See the boys and me mean business_

_Bustin' out dead or alive_

"But Mama…"

"Savannah, in a minute. I'm trying to find the right words to say."

_I can hear the hound dogs on my trail_

_All hell breaks loose, alarm and sirens wail_

_Like the game if you lose_

_Go to jail_

"But Mama," she cajoled one last time, "they're your favorite."

Weaver glanced once more at the little girl, who had ceased her antics and was now standing in the middle of the room, her face forlorn. The machine watched her daughter for a half beat. The real Catherine Weaver _did_ own a large quantity of albums from this musical group, an Irish rock band from the seventies, and data logs from before her death had indicated that it was her most frequently played. Well, Weaver considered, she was having some trouble setting the correct tone for this communiqué. Perhaps if she took a break and ruminated on it, she could determine the right things to say. What was the harm in procrastinating a few minutes. She stood, and shut the laptop's screen. "Yes," she agreed, "they are my favorite." She strode over to Savannah, who was now smiling gleefully, and joined her in her whimsical dancing. The two of them, mother and child, sang along to Phil Lynott's gravelly vocals.

_Tonight there's gonna be a trouble_

_I'm gonna find myself in_

_Tonight there's gonna be a jailbreak_

_So woman stay with a friend…_


End file.
